Book 3: Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love
by Soledad
Summary: 3rd Boromir story. Final chapter is up. Between returning nightmares, Boromir has some very interesting encounters. Implied mm interaction. Completed.
1. Chapter 1: The Ranger

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.

**Author's Notes:**

This is Part 3 of my Boromir storyline called ''Fall Before Temptation''. This one happens in real time again, on the 25th of October, in the year 3018, in the Third Age of Middle-earth, in Rivendell.

To Legolas' age: Tolkien offers us no information whatsoever, but there are two vastly different opinions among fanfic writers about his age, from a mere 500 to over 3000 years. Since it serves the purpose of my story better, I opted for the second solution, choosing a more mature Legolas (in Elven terms), who was born around the end of the Second Age, while his grandfather, Oropher, still ruled the Wood, but was much too young to partake in the Great Battle upon Dagorlad. This makes him considerably younger than Elrond (his lover) but still older than Elrond's children – and Aragorn's whole House!

To Legolas' betrothed: I made her up out of thin air, for I felt necessary for the Crown Prince of Mirkwood to get married some day and have an heir. But the Nandorin princess won't play any role in this story arc, she is merely mentioned here.

Legolas' song is the second part of Tolkien's poem ''Kortirion Under the Trees'', taken from ''The Book of Lost Tales, Part I''. As in my first story, I've chosen the second version instead the final one. There are also certain paragraphs quoted almost literally from the books, for continuity's sake.

By the description of Elrond's House I leanded on the movie appearance.

CHAPTER ONE: THE RANGER

In the next morrow after his arrival in the legendary Elven valley, Boromir son of Denethor awoke early, despite the weariness cauised by his long, tiresome journey. Though he had slept from dusk till dawn, he still felt bone-weary and wished he could stay in this soft bed forever. Valar, he had not slept in a bed since he left the Golden Hall of Meduseld, almost a hundred days ago!

He opened his eyes and looked around in the large, airy room that obviously served as his bedchamber. Long and wide it was, and the soft curves of its ceiling arched towards each other gracefully and met high above his head like the fingers of two hands, touching gently at the fingertips. Like the soft touch of lovers in the morning after. Beautifully carved, slender pillars framed the windows on the right longer side of the room; windows, high and narrow, that reached from the stone-pawed floor up to the ceiling, turning the whole room into an airy archway and letting the first rays of the early morning sun and the light breeze in.

Slowly, carefully, Boromir pulled himself into a half-sitting position among smooth sheets and soft pillows, admiring the Elvish craftsmanship of the ethereal sculptures adorning the pillars, the slender candlestick on his right, with long, thin, scented candles burning low on it, and that of his large bed, with its headboard wrought into the shape of a peacock, set with sapphires and emeralds; it made him think of the sad and beautiful song that Legolas had sung the previous night upon having his first glimpse of Imladris, and that made him and his fellow Wood-Elves cry… with joy or sorrow, Boromir could not tell.

Faintly he remembered the ancient, gold-haired Elf, Glorfindel, escorting him into this guest house, saying that he would not risk crossing the bridge with him in this weary state, and that someone – maybe Legolas? – shall come for him in the morrow to bring him to the Lord Elrond, where he can speak of his errand. But everything else was just a blur in his foggy mind, for still he felt so very tired that not even hunger or thirst could reach him. Blissfully tired even for feeling sorrow or guilt, his ever-present company.

He was about to fall back onto the pillows when he felt the presence of someone else in the room. In a heartbeat, his keen instincts kicked in, and he jerked awake in no time. His eyes swept around the room, and soon he found the source of the strange feeling of being watched.

For the first glimpse he could see that the other one was not an Elf either. A strange-looking, weather-beaten man it was, clad in the rough, dark green greab and soft, grey leather shirt of the Rangers of the North. His long legs were streched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but were as worn as the rest of his clothes. His shoulder-long, slightly wavy hair was raven-dark, but interwoven with grey strings, his pale face stern and his keen eyes grey. Full of sorrow and wisdom those grey eyes were, reminding Boromir of his brother and, surprisingly, his father as well.

The pain returned with full force to his heart at that thought.

''Do I know you, huntsman?'', he asked, for the strange familiarity of the other confused him. But his visitor simply shook his shaggy head.

''Nay, I do not think so, Heir of Gondor. Though I visited Minas Tirith in my youth long gone; but that was a long time ago. The Lord Denethor was not even married to your mother back then.''

''In that case'', Boromir said, ''I might ask wo you are and what you are doing in my room, I believe.''

''I am called Strider'', the other answered, ''at least among the folks of the North. And I have been sent to escort you to Elrond's halls.''

Boromir frowned. There was something in this man, something that he could almost grab with his very hands, but in the last moment it eluded his grasp.

''I thought the Prince of Mirkwood was supposed to come for me'', he said. Tha faint smile that swept over Strider's grim face was beyond his understanding, though.

''Legolas got… distracted'', the Ranger replied. ''Many years has he been kept away from Imladris, and many people here want to share songs and wine and tidings with him. I am one of those people, myself.''

''Have you known him for a long time?'' Boromir asked, getting up regretfully and looking around for a washing basin. ''Are you some sort of Elf-friend the old tales tell us about?''

''Bath is behind that silver curtain'', Strider guided him with the familiarity of a recurring guest. ''Take your time. Elrond does not expect you before the third hour of the day1.''

Boromir followed his lead and found not only hot and cold water aplenty for his disposal, but also towels and scented oil and his own clothes, cleaned and laid out, ready to be put on. He took a quick bath (after a hundred days of perilous wandering it was too good an offer to let it pass), rubbed himself dry with a large linen towel, got dressed and combed his still wet hair. Then he returned to the bedchamber.''

''You did not answer my question'', he said, sitting down at the small table across Strider and eyed the waiting breakfast eagerly. He had not had a decent meal (or a decent bath or even a decent bed) since he left Edoras.

''No, I did not'', Strider smiled, wide and open this time, and that smile, strangely, made his chiseled features look so much younger, that Boromir started guessing just how old the Ranger might be. ''Not that it would be a secret, though. I have known him a long, long time indeed – as mortal Men would count time, at least. For him and his Kin, however, it is but a wink of an eye. But do eat first… you must be famished. We can talk later all you want.''

Suddenly Boromir realized the ravenous hunger that had been eating him up from the inside all those recent days (having lived on _cram_ and feywine alone), and had to admit that Strider was right. So he slid closer to the table and carefully tasted what the Elves had prepared for him.

Used to the food in the mess-rooms of Minas Tirith, where he would eat in the company of his men every time his presence was not required at the Steward's table, this meal seemed to him like a walking dream. There was bread, surpassing the savour of a fair white loaf to one who is starving; and fruits sweet as wild berries and richer than the tended fruits of garden; and he drained a cup that was filled with a fragrant draught, cool as clear fountain and golden as a summer afternoon.

Strider watched him quietly, with a half smile on his face, and that remainded Boromir of long-gone days of his youth, when his brother had sat across him in their childhood chambers, watching him with those clear, grey eyes, older and wiser than such a young boy should have had. For though the younger of them, Faramir had always been the wiser, more somber and grave – mayhap the way their father had treated him all his life had made him age untimely.

And the old pain and guilt grabbed Boromir's heart in that tight grip again, too tight to let him even breathe; and the smile faded away from his face and his storm-grey eyes grew sad again.

So deep had he sunken in his misery that it took him a few moments to even realize that the Ranger had been talking to him. He felt ashamed and shook his head in regret.

''Forgive me, huntsman. My mind was elswhere.''

''And not a happy place that was, it seems'', Strider answered in a not unkind voice. ''Never mind me, though. I was just wondering why my presence might bother you so much. You seem… uncomfortable in my company. Mayhap I should send for Legolas, after all. He is known to have the skill of soothing other people's troubled minds.''

''Nay, naught of that'', Boromir protested, still ashamed of his own behaviour, ''You do not bother me at all. You just… remind me of someone.''

Strider looked at him with that strange understanding again – with the sorrow-worn glance of a Man who had seen too much, good things and bad things alike, but, at the end, mostly bad ones. Their glances met, grey eyes staring into grey eyes, the heavy burden and bitter wisdom of long-gone Westernesse mirroring in each other, secrets and legacies known only by those who had the blood of Númenor in their veins. Finally, the Ranger smiled faintly again and asked:

''Is that good or bad?''

''Bitter'', Boromir answered and turned his eyes away.''

''Sometimes it is'', the older man agreed quietly; then he stood. ''Have you had your fill yet? Then let us walk through the valley. I wish to show you its beauty. Mayhap it would ease the pain of your heart.''

''That I very much doubt'', Boromir sighed, ''But I am willing to follow you nonetheless. So very rare the times are when I can enjoy unspoiled beauty in peace.''

They walked through the room, crushing the fallen, windswept leaves that were rolling back and forth on the stone floor, beneath their feet, passed one of the tall, narrow windows that led outside and came to a long, open terrace that looked, over the deep, rocky bed of the stream, straight to Elrond's house.

Built on great pillars hewn from the living rock itself, like an exotic southern flower, the many-towered house of Elrond shimmered pearly white and pale gold in the early morning sun, in the nest of beautiful trees and thick bushes that had already turned red and gold in their autumn glory. Some of the towers were angular, others looked like ripe spring blossoms, and high roofs and gracefully spiralling archways bound them together to a single, ethereal construction, open for sunshine and wind and even for the rain in some places, but still strong enough to withstand the strongest army, for its strength came not from the weapons and walls that defended it, but from the powers and strong-will of its Master.

Strider lead Boromir through a hidden path to the very brink of the river. It was flowing fast and noisily, as mountain-streams do. There was only a narrow bridge of stone without a paraplet, that connected the two parts of the valley, and Boromir looked at it doubtfully, for the bridge was very narrow, indeed, and arched up rather high, and he was still a little unsure on his feet.

''Be careful'', Strider warned, guiding Boromir over their dangerous path, ''it is not an easy way for us who are not as light-footed as Elves are.''

''Yet you do not seem to falter'', Boromir noticed, admiring the smooth, graceful moves of the other. Strider smiled slightly.

''The paths of this dale are well-known to me'', he said, ''for I was brought up here. When my father was slain, my mother gave me in Elrond's care, and I grew up almost Elven.''

''Never have I heard that Elves would take the sons of mortal Men in foster care'', Boromir wondered, ''not since the Elder Days.''

''It is rare, indeed'', the Ranger nodded, ''but my father was an Elf-friend, one of the few that in these days still remained; and an ally of Elrond, who always held the Dúnedain of the North in his good graces.''

Passing the bridge, they crossed several arched corridors, each open in both sides, each different yet each beautiful in its own way, and came to Elrond's inner gardens, bathed in early sunlight and deep autumn gold. There was a round, stone table in the middle of it, and low benches were standing in a loose circle aroudn the table, and the whole garden was encircled by tall, narrow windows that led, instead of doors, to various parts of the Last Homely House on every side.

''We came early'', Strider stated, looking across the garden and up to a certain window, somewhere on the second level. ''The Lord Elrond is still occupied, it seems.''

Boromir followed his glance and – to his great surprise – he discovered the Prince of Mirkwood, sitting on the windowsill, turned halfways towards the garden. He wore a shimmering, silver embroided shirt rather than his usual green and brown garb of soft leather and rough linen, and his long, auburn hair was not ornamentally braided either; it fell freely upon his back and shoulders.

His eyes were shut, his head tilted back as he sang softly, almost inaudably to the trees and the morning sun. In this relaxed state, strangely, he did not seem as youthful and innocent as usual, though no less beautiful; a fair, ageless creature of great power and wisdom… and of great sadness, too. Boromir listened intently, for he recognized the song, through this time the words were different.

Thou art the inmost province of the fading isle,  
Where linger yet the Lonely Companies;  
Still, undespairing, here they softly file  
Along thy paths, with solemn harmonies,  
The holy people of an elder day,  
Immortal Elves, that singing fair and fey  
Of vanished things that were, and could be yet,  
Pass like a wind among the rustling trees,  
A wave of bowing grass, and we forget  
Their tender voices like wind-shaken bells  
Of flowers, their gleaming hair like golden asphodels. 

Once Spring was here with joy, and all was fair  
Among the trees; but Summer drowsing by the stream  
Heard trembling in her heart the secret player  
Pipe, out beyond the tangle of her forest dream,  
The long-drawn tune that Elvish voices made  
Foreseeing Winter through the leafy glade;  
The late flowers nodding on the ruined walls  
Then stooping heard afar that haunting flute  
Beyond the sunny aisles and tree-propped halld;  
For thin and clear and cold the note,  
As strand of silver glass remote. 

Then all thy trees, Kortirion, were bent,  
And shook with sudden, whispering lament:  
For passing were the days and doomed the nights  
When flitting ghost-moths danced as satellites  
Round tapers in the moveless air;  
And doomed already were the radiant dawns,  
The fingered sunlight drawn across the lawns,  
The odour and sthe slumbrous noise of meads,  
Where all the sorrel, flowers, and pluméd weeds  
Go down before the scyther's share.  
When cool October robed her dewy furze  
In netted sheen of gold-shot gossamers,  
Then the wide-umbraged elms began to fail;  
Their mourning multitude of leaves grew pale,  
Seeing afar the icy spears  
Of Winter marching blue behind the sun  
Of bright All-Hallows. Then their hour was done,  
And wanly borne on wings of amber pale  
They beat the wide airs of the fading vale,  
And flew like birds across the misty meres..

The desperate loging and infinite sadness of that song made Boromir's heart ache.

''What is this song?'', he asked. ''And why does it seem to bring the Wood-Elves such sorrow?''

But Strider only shook his head in reply.

''It is a long and sorrowful tale, son of Denethor, but it is not mine to tell. Ask Legolas when you feel close enough to him to risk such a question.''

''How could I ever hope to get close enough to him for such a question?'' Boromir asked. ''I only travelled with him a day or two… and I know naught about Elves. He might be older than those huge trees over there, even if he looks like a youngster for the mortal eye.''

''That he does, indeed'', Strider smiled again. ''I know not the year, but Legolas was born around the end of the Second Age, ere the Dark Lord was overthrown.''

''That long?'' Boromir was hard-pushed to believe it. He knew the Elf had to be centuries older than he but never thought him *_that*_ ancient. At least as Men counted. For an Elf it was not such a high age.

Strider nodded.

''A great source of both, pride and sorrow, those years for the Silvan folk were. For not long after the last-born of their Crown Prince came to the light of this world, Oropher King of the Wood was slain upon the dark plains of Dagorlad and the crown went to Thranduil, his only son. Many hundred years afterwards had Thranduil nursed a grudge against Elrond, last Lord of the Noldor remaining in Middle-earth. For he blamed them – and their failed leadership, as he saw it – for the untimely death of his father and the heavy losses of his people in the Great War.''

''Justly so?'' Boromir asked, intrigued by the intricacies of Elven politics. Never in his life had he thought of Elves as real people, guided by the same urges and passions as mortal Men – and suffering of the same flaws.

The Ragner sighed.

''Nay, I would not say so. Wood-Elves are the greatest archers Middle-earth has ever seen, but they are less great in following orders – and their weapons are light. Yet in his grief and anger Thranduil was not willing to admit that the free-spirited way of his people led to many unnecessary deaths in battle. For he led home only the third of the army that was following Oropher to war… and no one of his three older sons were among them.''

''But surely it has changed since those days'', Boromir said, ''for Legolas seemed overjoyed upon seeing Imladris again; and he and his people were welcomed by the Elves in the dale with open arms.''

''It was Legolas who changed it'', Strider answered. ''It began more than a thousand years after the Bettle upon Dagorlad.. about the same time as Hyarmendacil, King of Gondor, conquested Harad. Surely, you were told about those events in your youth.''

Now it was Boromir's turn to sigh heavily.

''Aye I was. That must have been the most glorious of times for Gondor… and for the whole of our kin…''

''Yet an old evil reappeared as well'', Strider replied sadly, ''and has made a stronghold at Dol Guldur. A shadow fell on Greenwood the Great, home of the Silvan folk, and Men began to call it Mirkwood, for nameless fear haunted its paths and strange deaths happened under its trees. Thranduil became worried and finally gave in to the urgings of his son. He overcame his pride and allowed Legolas to seek out the guidance of the White Council. There Legolas met Elrond, almost two thousand years ago, befriended him and his family, and the long-held grudge between the Forest and the Dale came to an end.''

''As simple as that?'' Boromir wondered. The Ranger nodded.

''As simple as that. Legolas can be very persuasive if he puts his mind to it – and a remarkable mind it is! Do not let yourself be fooled by his easy-going manner. He might be a mere Silvan Elf on his mother's side, but his fathernal ancestors were Sindarin princes and belonged to the family of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, the greatest Sindar King who never left Middle-earth and whose daughter, Lúthien, helped to defeat Morgoth himself.''

Boromir glanced upwards again, watching in awe as Legolas finished his song and got lost in his own thoughts, filled with deep sorrow as it seemed. A mere mortal could only guess how many memories unfolded in his mind in that very moment, reaching across over three thousand years.

Then another one, a tall and strong man clad in a deep burgundy robe emerged from the shadows of the room, the curtain of his long, raven hair hiding his face from the watching eyes. Quietly he approached the saddened Wood-Elf and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Light and gentle was his touch, a simple gesture between two old friends, yet it told of more intimacy than a fierce embrace between two young lovers. Legolas sighed, leaning his forehead against the other's shoulder for a fleeting moment; then he looked up again and smiled, the sorrow fading away from his fair face like snow in the heat of the midday sun, and he seemed young again, young and fresh as a green spring leaf he had been named after, all those countelss centuries ago.

After that, the hand of the other fell aways from his shoulder, and they retreated into the shadows of the room again.

Boromir felt his chest tightening with pain. That touch, so natural, so unashamed of…

''That was…''

''The Lord Elrond, yes'', the Ranger nodded. He did not seem to have taken offense on the subtle but undoubtably intimate interlude they just watched. ''We can go to his antechamber now, for he has no doubt noticed our presence.''

''But they… you said they were friends…''

''They are. They only became lovers after Elrond's wife departed over Sea, some five hundred years ago'', he smiled again, fondly this time. ''Though I do suspect that Legolas had been in love with Elrond a lot longer.''

Seeing Boromir's shell-shocked face, he solemnly added:

''Elves live very long, and they see things differently than Men do, Son of Gondor. They celebrate love in many forms and ways, and their heart is often wide enough for more than one person, though they seldom share themselves with different lovers at a given time. Great was Elrond's grief after his wife parted, his heart barren and full of pain. His household, and even his children, feared that he would fade away and die of broken heart as many Elves do when they lose someone very dear to them. So Glorfindel sent for Legolas, knowing how close he and Elrond always were, and Legolas healed Elrond's heart.''

''His children _approved_ him bedding another male?'' Boromir could still not believe what he was hearing, remembering all too well the cruelty his father had reacted after detecting the 'indiscretion' of one of his councillors. ''And someone that much younger?''

''You must not look at this through the narrow-mindedness of your own people, Denethor's son'', the Ranger warned. ''Even if Legolas had only offered Elrond the comfort of flesh, his children would have been grateful. For more than anything did they fear the loss of their father, so shortly after they had to say farewell to their mother. But Legolas gave him his heart, his loyalty and his free-spirited soul as well. And every time he comes into this valley, the Elves who dwell here sing with joy, for the burden of endless centuries seems to fall from Elrond's heart.''

''But is Legolas not the Crown Prince of his father's kingdom?'' Boromir asked, confused. ''Would he not have to sire an heir to continue his bloodline?''

Was it not the same thing _his_ father demanded from him?

''He is and he would'', Strider nodded. ''In fact, he has been betrothed to a Nandorin princess for quite some time.''

''And she is willing to share his husband-to-be with a male lover?'' Elven customs proved to be more confusing than Boromir would ever have thought.

Strider shrugged.

''They have an understanding. As long as Elrond remains in Middle-earth, Legolas shall remain with him. But after the Lord of Imladris departs over Sea, Legolas shall return to his father's realm and wed the princess.''

''Do you know this princess?'' Boromir was getting curious. Nandor Elves had become rare in recent centuries – moreso than other Elves –, and hardly ever had he heard about them but in ancient legends. Strider nodded.

''I met her once, last time I visited Mirkwood on Gandalf's errand. She is rather young as Elves go – and very beautiful, a rare gem even among her fair kin. I do not know her well, though. Nandor Elves are very secretive; they live apart even from their own kin and do not trust mortal Men, not even Elf-friends.''

''I did not know that there still were Green-Elves in Middle-earth at all'', Boromir marvelled. ''I was told that their last ships took off from their haven near Dol Amroth more than a thousand years ago.''

''That is very true'', the Ranger said, ''Yet there are still those who remained, hidden among the others of their Kin; and some of them even returned to the woods, eastern from the Misty Mountains. I know very little of them, though. Mayhap Legolas shall be willing to tell you their story one day; he seems to have grown rather fond of you during your journey together. Come now. It would be unseeming to make the Lord Elrond wait.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Curious what Elrond will have to say? Go to Chapter 2!

End note:

1. 9 o'clock in the morning, actually.


	2. Chapter 2: The Lord of the Valley

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.

**Author's Notes:**

As you can see, I continue breaking my long-winding stories into shorter chapters, in order to make reading easier. There might be the one or other added chapter later, as I continue re-edit and re-write my stories in retrospect to later plot development and constructive criticism. I take analytic reviews very seriously, because they tell me whether or not I have managed to deliver the things I intended to.

So thanks to all who take the time to read and review, and I hope I'll never disappoint you.

CHAPTER TWO: THE LORD OF THE VALLEY

They left the garden and – through another gracefully arched corridor – entered the huge, somewhat shadowy antechamber of Elrond's house. It was paved with hewn stones in the colour of deep copper and pale gold; heavy, rectangular pillars held its board stairways that led to the upper levels, high under the arched ceiling that was yet hidden in the shadows.

There were small writing tables of deep golden, polished wood, and tall, slender candle-stics of copper with honey-coloured, thin beeswax candles – everything in the rich, golden and brown colours of autumn, except a white marble bust of an ethereally beautiful Elven woman in front of the main staircase.

Boromir looked at the Ranger in askance.

''The Lady of Imladris'', Strider said quietly, ''Elrond's wife, Celebrían. Glorfindel says, in the happier days she used to welcome the guests to Elrond's house on this very spot. That is why Elrond wished to have at least her likeness there. For him, she never really left.''

He drifted off, for his keen instincts, sharpened in this very house many years ago, told him that someone was approaching them. And indeed, only a few short moments later, the Lord Elrond descended the main stairway with the customary grace of the Elven race. He was fully clad now, wearing a gold-embroided, pale yellow undergown beneath his heavy velvet robe, as it was custom among Elves of royal birth, and a delicately-woven mithril ring adorned his brow: the symbol of his power and heritage.

Boromir looked at him in wonder, for he never really believed that, at last, he would come to see Elrond with his own eyes – the Half-Elven of whom so many tales told, and whom he had thought a legend only a few months earlier.

The face of Elrond was ageless, but not the same way as Glorfindel's or even Legolas'. _Ageless_, indeed, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things, both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight and fell open upon his back, with only two ornamental braids above slightly pointed ears, held together by delicate golden clasps, and his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars.

Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strenght. He was the Lord of Imladris, mighty among both Elves and Men, and seeing him Boromir suddenly understood where the noble strength og the King of Westernesse came. For Elrond's own brother, who chose the fate of mortal Men, gifted it upon all his progeny, the Kings of Númenor, and those who came after them, the Kings of Arnor and Gondor.

//Many years earlier, as a boy, learning with his brother the tale of their sires and the history of their city, Boromir, who was displeased that his father was not King, asked him:

''How many hundreds of years needs it to make a Steward a Kind if the King returns not?'' 

And his father answered gravely:

''Few years maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice.''

At that time, young Boromir could not fathom this answer. Now, almost thirty years later, facing the living proof of that royalty, it became all very clear in a mere moment.//

Elrond looked at the big man, saw his aching heart and his tortured mind and great pity overcame him, for his eyes looked deeper than even those of most Elves, and he could see the invisible mark of death that was burned upon his tormented soul.

Many had he met and known from this sort among the Dúnedain of the North: single-mindedly focussed on their task, the battles and the defense of their homes, betrothed to death, without a single place of peace in their heart. If Denethor's son didn't find his path out of the darkness of pain and self-doubt, and soon, there was no power great enough in Middle-eart that could save him.

The Lord of Imladris reached the bottom of the stairway, greeted Denethor's heir with the usual grave kindness of his people and offered him some _miruvor_ – the same clear and fragrant draught Boromir had already tasted in that very morrow for breakfast.

''Legolas has already told me of your errand'', he then said, ''but I wish to hear about it from your own mouth. What is it that you require from me?''

Boromir swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and wanted desperately again that his brother would be there with him, weaving a pretty braid of sweet words as he always did. Making this ancient, mighty Elf-lord understand, how dire the need of Gondor was, how much their depended on counsel and wisdom and hope, more so than on weapons of war.

''I do not seek allies in war, my lord'', he finally said. ''We know that the might of Elrond is in wisdom, not in weapons; or so the legends say. I came to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. For those might hide the secret of Gondor's fate; and mayhap even her last, best hope.''

''Then counsel may you be given and hope shall you find in this house'', Elrond nodded solemnly. ''For the strange words of your dream, as Legolas repeated them for me, are not at all strange for the lore-masters of the North.''

Boromir looked at the agaless face and the shadow of despair seemed to clear up a little from his heart.

''So tell me, Lord Elrond'', he asked, ''do you know about the Sword that was Broken? Is it truly to find here, in your house?''

''It is'', Elrond answered, ''for it has been, among the other heirlooms of Arnor, given into my custody after the end of the North-Kingdom. I shall ask Estel to show it you'', with that, he looked at the quietly watching Strider with a smile. Boromir, too, turned to the Ranger in awe.

''_You are_ Estel? The same one Legolas and Glorfindel spoke of upon my arrival?''

Strider shrugged.

''I was called Estel in my youth, yes. It was a name my mother gave me, for I was all the hope left her when my father was slain, and the Elves in this dale still call me that. But it is no name I would answer any where outside Imladris.''

''Why is that?'' Boromir asked. Strider looked at him solemnly.

''I am no Man's hope, Boromir, Heir of the Steward of Gondor. Not even my own. For dark times are waiting before us, and foolish it would be to put one's hope in any mortal Man.''

''So 'tis true that _Isildur's Bane_ would emerge again?'' Boromir asked. ''Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?''

''The words were not _the doom of Minas Tirith_'', Elrond said. ''But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. It has been treasured by his heirs when most other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among them that it should be made again when _Isildur's Bane_ was found. Now we shall show you the sword that you have sought; when you have seen it, what would you ask? Do you wish for it to return to the Land of Gondor?''

''I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle'', answered Boromir proudly. ''Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope – if such a thing could indeed deturn out of the shadows of the past…''

He looked at Strider, and doubt was in his eyes. The Ranger looked back at him soberly.

''We shall see'', was all he answered.

''And what about _Isildur's Bane_?'' Boromir asked. ''Has it, in truth, reemerged? Do you know, what it is – and where it is?''

''We do'', Elrond said, ''and so shall you, in a short time. But I cannot speak of it, not yet. I have to withhold the truth a little longer… til the messengers of other people, that had been announced, arrive. Are you willing to wait til the Council? I promise that all your questions shall be answered there.''

''What other choice do I have?'' Boromir replied bitterly. ''I cannot force you to tell me what you would not; and I cannot leave your house ere I have learnt the meaning of that riddle. Therefore, I shall wait. How long then?''

''Twenty days'', Elrond said. ''Mayhap a few less – or a few more.''

Boromir shrugged, He did not like it, but he did not have any other choice, either.

''A hundred and ten days I have journeyed, over many dangerous leagues between Minas Tirith and Imladris, most of it alone. I can wait twenty more lays in the leasure of this house.''

Elrond gave him a faint smile again.

''I shall see into it that you find some much-needed rest under my roof'', he said. ''Surely, Estel would prove a good host for you during your stay; for this house had been his home for a long time.''

Strider bowed in agreement, and Elrond took his leave from his somewhat displeased guest. The Ranger looked after him for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then he turned to Boromir again.

''So, do you wish me to walk you around the dale, my friend? There are many wonders, hidden for the naked eye, but I know every single one of them and can point out them to you.''

''Nay'', Boromir replied, ''not today. Right now, I wish to go back to my room and think.''

''Were a hundred and ten days alone in the Wild not enough for you to think?'' the Ranger asked. ''Would it not be better to share your thoughts with a friend?''

''Mayhap it would'', Boromir nodded, ''but I have no friends in this Elven dale. Nor do I need any. I am no spoiled princeling who needs to pour out his wee heart to the first Man who comes across. I am the heir of the Steward and the Captain-General of Gondor… accustomed to bear my burden alone.''

With that, he turned away to cross that narrow bridge again, this time without any guidance, leaving a thunderstruck Ranger behind.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

''That went well'', commented Legolas, appearing in one of the tall, narrow windows that looked at one of the many inner gardens and served as entrances as well.

Strider looked at him, frowning. Despite growing up among Elves, their custom of appearing seemingly out of thin air still unnerved him.

''I jumped down from the balcony above'', Legolas offered as an answer to his unspoken question; then he walked over to Elrond withe a frow of his own. ''I fear you have just made a grave error, _meleth-nin_''.

''In what way?'', asked Elrond.

''By keeping the Son of Denethor in the dark about many different matters'', the Prince of Mirkwood answered. ''He is not a mere messenger. He is the Heir of the Lord of the strongest realm of Men in Middle-earth, and though he is not called a Prince, he most likely used to be treated as one. And he certainly is used to partake any counsels of his father.''

''But we cannot reveal him the whole truth'', Elrond said, ''not before the Council. And some of the messengers that were sent out still have not arrived.''

''That I know'', Legolas nodded, ''yet I think you should have been more forthcoming with lesser tidings… or ask him for some, mayhap.''

''For what end?'', Elrond clearly did not understand.

Legolas rolled his eyes in frustration.

''For someone who has the blood of mortal Men in his veins you certainly have forgotten how to handle them. Men loath to be shut out of counsels… more so when they are of high birth. It hurts their pride and offends their honour, or so have I found during my dealings with both the Beornings and the Men of Dale… even though they are of much lesser birth than the Heir of Gondor.''

Elrond felt truly surprised by this.

''You believe I have offended the son of Denethor?''

''And rather deeply to that'', nodded Legolas. ''Regardless what we know of Estel's ancestry, right now the throne of Gondor waits for Boromir – even if he would only sit in the chair of Stewards, at this moment that chair is the highest one in Minas Tirith – in the entire South. He is a dignitary, and you treated him like a servant.''

''I did no such thing!'', protested Elrond.

Legolas shrugged.

''You refused to tell him aught what he longed to know. Instead you told him to go back to his rooms and wait til you would be ready to speak. I could see the flashing of his eyes from the garden; and I very much doubt that he would think kindly of you right now… of either of you. Which I even understand to some extent… Would you keep tidings of importance from _me_, I would not be delighted, either.''

''Never would I keep aught from you'', said Elrond with a fond smile, but Legolas tilted his head on one side with that strange, bird-like gesture that is only seen by Wood-Elves and always is a sign of irritation.

''And why is that? Because I am the Crown Prince of Mirkwood or because I share your bed?''

''Legolas!'', Elrond cried out in dismay, now clearly hurt.

Legolas took a deep, calming breath and laid his hand upon Elrond's forearm.

''Forgive me. That was uncalled for. But I hope you can see now what I meant to say. The son of Denethor is, by rank and dignity, not beneath me, yet you dismissed him as if he were but a too curious esquire. 'Tis something he would not take kindly. For he is a very proud Man.''

''He is more than just that'', Elrond sighed. ''I could feel the despair that fills his heart – despair and something else I had not felt from a Man for a very long time – not since the fall of the North-kingdom.''

''There is a shadow upon his heart'', Legolas agreed, ''a darkness that comes from despair rather than from an evil heart… I have seen that once, long ago, by one of our hunters who, by accident, came too close to Dol Guldur.''

''Can this be healed?'', Strider asked.

''I know not'', said Legolas sadly. ''That hunter I spoke of went to the Havens near Dol Amroth and left Middle-earth to seek healing in the Blessed Realm. Yet whether a Man could be healed from this, I cannot say. It would take a great love to save him… and he looks not like someone who is loved. Not the way he would need it.''

''What is your advice?'', asked Elrond. ''What should we do about the Heir of Gondor?''

''There is very little you or I could do'', Legolas replied thoughtfully, ''and even less that he would accept, I fear. We can try and leave him alone for a few days, til his ire cools down a little. Then we can decide our next move.''

''You speak of it as we would play a game here'', Strider accused.

''On but we do'', answered Elrond in Legolas' stead. ''A most cruel and perilous game, with all our lives _and_ the fate of Middle-earth at stake. One wrong move and we shall not be the only ones who lose. If we fail, darkness shall come upon Middle-earth, and not even the Sea might offer us any escape…''

He trailed off, his eyes searching the westward windows, as it had become his custom in recent years. Strider cast a bewildered look at Legolas, but the Elf only shook his head, and upon his fair face there was deep sorrow.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

Some of the dialogues were lifted from Elrond's Council in the books, of course. I know they do not belong to an earlier encounter, but I could use them very handily, so be merciful with me, would you? g

I know, this was a rather short chapter, but it came here to its natural end, so I decided to keep it so. There will be at least two more chapters added later, though, for a certain wizard has yet to arrive…


	3. Chapter 3: Reunions

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Legolas' extended family belongs to me.

Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.

**Author's Notes:**

Chapter Three was mainly written because of the necessity to work in the arrival of the other messengers – mostly the Dwarves. As you can see, I took some of the Council dialogue and moved it to an earlier scene for two reasons:

First because I have postponed the Council itself some twenty days later to give enough time for important plot twists to happen;

And secondly because the story concerning the Council (A Heart For Falsehood Framed) is long enough as it is, containing seven whole chapters, which will be put together in a not too far future. I only posted the story in three parts because at that time I haven't figured out the chaptering system yet.

Also, originally I had not intentions to write an Erestor/Lindir subplot; the whole thing just popped up in my mind one day and won't go away, so I thought, what the heck, I can write it, it does no harm, does it?

As I have alredy mentioned in the Appendix to ''Forgotten Song'', there is absolutely no proof for Galdor of the Havens to be the same person as Galdor of Gondolin, though – according to Michael Martinez – Tolkien *was* toying with the idea for awhile before rejecting it. It's something I have made up all by myself.

In spite of these slight canon twists, I still don't consider this an AU-fic. Basic facts from the books are unchanged, and so are – I hope – the characters themselves. At least I tried to keep them so.

**Dedication:**

To Athea, whose Legolas in the long and very sweet story ''Beneath it All'' (read it, people, it's excellent!) greatly inspired my Lindir in this chapter.

CHAPTER THREE: REUNIONS

As the evening drew on, Erestor, the steward of Elrond's House finished the preparations for the messengers of far-away kingdoms that were due to arrive ere sunset, and allowed himself a slow stroll through the gardens.

Like most of Elrond's household (save Glorfindel, of course), he was not particularly old for an Elf, born around the middle of the Second Age, and of moderate Noldorin descent – not from a House of Princes, yet honourable enough to be invited to live in Imladris.

He came to the valley as a young elfling, shortly after Sauron destroyed Eregion(1) and his parents were slain alongside Celebrimbor, their Lord. Elrond took him as a fosterling in his home and taught him to become both a lore-master and a warrior – having considerably more success with the latter one, for the young Elf was wildly determined to avenge the death of his parents and the destruction of his home.

He got his revenge during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men; he fought through that long and bitter war on his Lord's side, til the last Battle upon Dagorlad, where he was gravely injured and only Elrond's healing skills were able to save him.

Yet his recovery had been a very slow one, so Elrond entrusted to him the much needed work of running his house, for it required little effort of the body and put the remarkable mind of the young Elf to good use. And Erestor proved worthy of this trust and took the burden of everyday's business effectively from his foster father's shoulders.

So the office of the steward was given to him for good, aside of beeing chosen as the chief chancellor of the House, and Erestor did not mind. He had seen enough blood already, and though he followed Glorfindel to the battle against the Witch-King of Angmar(2), he was content with his peaceful life in Imladris. It might not be very eventful, but it was home. A home where he had a purpose, a family and, above all, time.

After that last battle he married fair Lindir, one of the finest singers the dale had ever heard, and though their bond naturally could not produce children, they found great joy in each other and their love did not fade with the passing of years3.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Erestor walked along several arched passages and down many spiral stairways cut in stone, til he finally reached a high garden above the steep bank of the river. There he found that his favourite resting spot was already occupied. In the porch on the side of the house, looking east, Glorfindel was sitting, and with him Legolas, and a third Elf, whom he had never seen before.

''Erestor!'', Glorfindel greeted him. ''Come, join us, my friend!''

Erestor nodded his thanks and watched curiously the strange Elf who was sitting between Legolas and Glorfindel. He knew it could only be the messenger of Círdan the Shipwright, who had arrived earlier on, but Erestor had not had the time yet to greet him, being busy with his domestic work.

Clearly one of the Falathrim, the stranger was clad in grey and silvery green like the foam upon the Sea, and his long, silver hair was bound to a tight pony tail on the nape of his neck with a clasp made of a rainbow-hued, spiked seashell, and his eyes had a strange, changeable colour: greyish green, with a dark grey ring around his irises. Like most of the Falathrim, he was less tall than Erestor or Glorfindel (or even Legolas), and he wore a short, neatly-trimmed silver beard(4), that gave his appearance even more dignity.

He must have felt the curiosity of the younger Elf, for he smiled slightly and bowed his head as a greeting.

''Él síla lúmena vomentienguo(5) (a star shines upon the hour of our meeting)'', he said in his own tongue. ''I am called Galdor.''

Though this was harly a surprise, for the messenger of Círdan, Lord of the Falathrim had been announced weeks ago and expected for days; seeing him in person still stole Elestor's breath. Having another one aside Glorfindel who had fought against Morgoth's hosts and even survived the fall of Gondolin was slightly overwhelming.

''I am honoured'', he said politely and he meant it; then he added. ''It surprises me to see you in person, though. I have thought that all Elf-Lords of Gondolin, save Glorfindel, were of Noldorin descent.''

''All, save of the Nos Galdon, the Folk of the Tree'', Galdor corrected. ''We were a mixed folk, Teleri at most, who seeked refuge in Gondolin after the Nirnaeth Arneodiad(6a), but even a member of Nandor Elves were among our ranks, like the one young Legolas here was named after(6).''

Erestor shot the Prince of Mirkwood a curious look.

''Are the two of you of the same kindred?''

''From fairly afar'', Legolas responded. ''His sister, Nellas(7), wed my grandfather in Doriath. But he left Middle-earth after the War of the Valar, as far as I know.''

''… and liveth still in Tor Eressëa, with the rest of the Nos Galdon, the Folk of the Tree, named by the Eldar there Laiqalassë'', Glorfindel added in the overly ceremonious manner of a minstrel.

''You met him before your return?'', Galdor asked Glorfindel when the laughter died down.

Glorfindel shook his head thoughtfully.

''Nay, my friend… My return was rather… unusual.''

But he said of this no more, no matter how much the others urged him, so Erestor gave up and turned to Legolas again.

''So; has your sister sent any messages?''

The son of Thranduil nodded with an odd expression on his fair face: half joyous, half sorrowful.

''Aye, she did; and my father shall be both most pleased and utterly devastated to hear it. For Celebwen gave birth in the summer and has a little daughter now, called Fallinel(8), and this is a cause of great joy, indeed, for there had been no children in our family since the beginning of this Age(9), when my sister, Aiwë came to the light of Arda.''

''Aiwë, the Little Bird?(9)'', Erestor swallowed hard, knowing quite a lot of Legolas' family history. ''Was she not the one who…''

''Who got bitten by the Giant Spiders and died from her poisonous wound, ere she had even come of age'', Legolas nodded sadly.

''But why would the birth of a long-awaited grandchild bring your father sorrow?'', Erestor asked, somewhat confused.

''Not her birth'', said Legolas, ''that certainly shall be celebrated, even with our limited resources. But Celebwen is leawing these shores, and my father might never even see her daughter. For he would likely not leave Middle-earth. Ever.''

''Why is your sister leaving?'', Glorfindel asked. ''Has the Sea-longing become thus painful for her that she cannot bear it any longer?''

Legolas only shrugged and it was Galdor who answered for him.

''I believe she is concerned about the safety of her child. She remembers all too well the fate of sweet little Aiwë and all the other perils of Middle-earth, and wants to protect her daughter from any harm.''

''She did not even know Aiwë'', said Legolas bitterly. ''She left us ere our Little Bird was born. From all of us I am the only one who knew her.''

''Which is one of her deepest regrets'', offered Galdor quietly, and in his keen eyes, accustomed to pry over the sea-foam to great length, there was compassion now.

''And yet she would make Father suffer the same loss again?'', countered Legolas accusingly.

''You can try and make her wait a little longer'', said Glorfindel. ''The Havens are still safe, after all.''

''They are, but who knows how much longer?'', Galdor shook his head soberly. ''We are vulnerable from both sides, you know that. Aside of the two harbours of Mithlond, our people live in small towns and villages along the coast that could easily be attacked from the inland; and should the corsairs of Umbar choose to sail northwards, not even our white ships would be safe.''

''There is no safe place in Middle-earth as long as Mordor is not overthrown'', Glorfindel agreed grimly, ''and for that to happen, the chance is very slim.''

''True'', said Galdor with a sigh, and the pain of old memories mirrored in his eyes for a moment'', and yet hope we must as long as we still walk under the Sun.''

To this, the others had no answer, so they sat in silent agreement, enjoying the peaceful evening. Shadow had fallen in the valley below already, but there was still light on the faces of the mountains far above, and the air still was warm. The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered in Elrond's gardens.

Erestor tilted his head backwards, eyes shut, letting the last warm rays of the setting sun caress his face. He knew that shadows were growing and war shall come again, soon… yet in this moment naught could disturb the peace that dwelt in his heart. Well aware he was of the privilege of dwelling in this well-protected valley.

Someone cleared his troath and as he opened his eyes, he saw his spouse standing at arm's length and smiling at him ruefully.

''I regret to disturb your peace, love'', said Lindir with the lilting, musical voice of a born minstrel, ''but you are needed, I fear. The messengers from the Dwarf-kingdom have come.''

Legolas made a dour face to that, but Erestor rose with a resigned sigh, and so did Glorfindel.

''I better escort you back to the Lord Elrond'', the gold-haired Elf-Lord said to Galdor, ''for he expects you at sunset. Legolas, will you join us?''

The Prince of Mirkwood shook his head.

''Nay, I promised my people to show them some hidden places in the valley – places with great trees they have never seen before. We have to make preparations for Eruhantalë(10). Though it shall come fairly late this year, we might be forced to celebrate it in Imladris, if, indeed, the planned Council should not take place before the next moon. Have you heard of other messengers that should come still?''

''No-one else has been announced'', Erestor said, ''save Gildor, should he come back in time from his pilgrimage to Elostirion(11). But the Lord Elrond wishes not to begin ere his sons return from the Wild with tidings. Haldir of Lórien was to be sent out, but a message has come in from the Lady of the Wood that he is needed at home and shall not come after all.''

''What a shame'', Lindir said lightly. ''The Galadhrim are a strange folk, but Haldir has visited Imladris several times during this Age, and I always found him pleasantly open-minded… for a Silvan Elf.''

Legolas' eyes flashed dangerously, and Erestor hurriedly interfered to take the edge of the insult that his spouse had spoken so innocently – once again.

''Aye, as far as I know Haldir is the only one of the Galadhrim who travels abroad.''

''They are a secretive folk'', Glorfindel agreed, ''and a bred of their own. Not even the other Wood-Elves can fully understand them, or so I have heard.''

''They are one with their land'', said Legolas quietly, ''more than any of us can ever hope to become. I wish I could visit the Golden Wood one day… no where in Middle-earth are trees like they have them in Lórien. Not any more.''

''Mayhap you shold have your wish granted sooner than you believe'', said Glorfindel with that strange light of foresight in his deep, ancient eyes; then he turned to Galdor. ''Let us not make the Lord Elrond wait, my friend.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From the balcony of the guest house Boromir watched the small company of Dwarves following the only path that led across the bridge of Bruninen and Elrond's house beyond. Six they were in the number, sitting on strong hill ponies, wearing clothes in the deep brown colour of the Earth from which they were said to have been formed at the beginning of time, and armours of magnificent craftmanship.

Their leader was rather big and broad, even for a Dwarf, very long and thick snow-white beard covering his broad chest like a winter-cloud, adorned with two thin ornamental braids held together by a golden clasp under his chin, his long, tick hair draped open upon his back. He wore a shining mail shirt, that covered his knees, under his earth-brown coat, a gold-adorned iron helmet that made his round head look like a bullet, and on his silver belt there was a large clasp of iron and gold, crafted beautifully and adorned with the crest of the Kingdom under the Mountain(12).

The other wore similar, though less rich clothes and armour, and looked just as old as their leader. There was only one young Dwarf among them (young as Dwarves go, at least), in face and attire not unlike the leader, yet his beard was shorter and a fiery reddish brown, he had a slightly upturned nose, and was rather wiry for a Dwarf(13), something that Boromir found surprising. For though he had not seen a Dwarf before (for they dwelt not in the South), after the old legends he had been told in his youth he assumed that all Dwarves were short and stocky like stones.

He watched with interest as the Elves of the valley came out from the trees to greet the Dwarves with a merry song (which they answered with various scowls), and at last one of them, a tall, dark-haired one whom Boromir remembered to have seen fleetingly in Elrond's house, came forth and welcomed them with a slight bow. As hard as he tried, he could not make out a word of their short conversation through the musical noise of the many waterfalls around, but after a little while the Dwarves were led over the bridge to the main house.

Te stone bridge was hardly wide enoug for a pony to walk safely on it, so the Dwarves dismounted and crossed it on foot, slowly and carefully, one by one, each leading his pony by the bridle. The Elves had brought bright lanterns to the shore and continued singing merrily as their scowling guests went across. The Elves followed them, laughing and singing, and soon they all vanished from sight into the house.

It took Boromir several heartbeats til he understood why this mere fact made him simmer with rage.

The Dwarves, sworn enemies of the Fair Folk of old, were offered accomodations in the very house of the Lord of the Valley, why he himself, the messenger and Heir of the last Númenórean realm, was put up in a guest house with some nameless Elves from Mirkwood.

This was more than a simple oversight. This was a downright insult, not only towards his person, but towards the people of Gondor as well, their desperate fight against the Enemy, all their sacrifices.

Just wo did these Elves think they were?

As he stood there, shaking with righteous anger, he noticed Legolas racing over the bridge like a steady-footed deer, his fair face dark with cold wrath. The other Mirkwood-Elves came out from the guest house to greet him, and they talked shortly, but though Boromir could hear their musical voices clearly, the way they spoke was very different from the Elven tongue he was taught, so he understood naught of what they said... save one word that the Prince of Mirkwood spat in fury. He did not know the true meaning of that word either, but he knew it as an insult, aimed specifically at Dwarves.

This amazed him, for though the animosity between Elves and Dwarves had been a known thing since the Elder Days, he thought not that their hatred would still run this deep, and he was wondering if the Council that Elrond planned to hold in twenty days would end up in bloodshed… for Legolas certainly was a force to take into consideration, and Dwarves were not known of their peaceful nature.

The faces of the other Mirkwood Elves darkened as well, and they left with their Prince at once. Yet they went not to the main house but followed a path across the bridge, up to the cut-in stairways towards the further parts of the valley.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, in the House of Elrond, the Dwarves were seated in one of the smalled dining-rooms and a generous supper was offered to them. The Master of the House joined them himself, and so did a few of his household, among them Erestor and Lindir.

''Welcome to Imladris again, Master Glóin'', Elrond greeted the leader of the Dwarves smiling. ''Many long years have passed by since you have sat at my table, but tidings from your work have come to my ears during those years, and I was glad to hear that the Kingdom under the Mountain keeps flourishing.''

''Thank you for your kind words, Master Elrond'', the Dwarf answered in his deep, rumbling voice. ''The memories of Rivendell and the hospitality of its Lord have always been pleasant ones among my people. Give me leave to present my son, Gimli'', with that, he nudged a little the young Dwarf on his right, the one with the fiery beard, who stood and bowed deeply.

''Welcome and well met, Gimli son od Glóin'', Elrond nodded kindly, then turned back to Glóin; ''So tell me, Master Glóin: how are your people faring?''

''There is much to tell, good and bad'', grumbled Glóin, ''yet it is mostly good: we have so far been fortunate, though we do not escape the shadow of these times. If 'tis truly your wish to hear of us, I shall gladly tell you tidings. But do stop me when you are weary! Dwarves' tongues run on when speaking of their handiwork, they say.''

''And with right'', laughed Lindir, ignoring the sharp jab his spouse gave him, ''but fear not, Master Dwarf! We all are eager to hear of your achievements, regardless of the length of your tale.''

This seemed to please Glóin, to the great relief of Erestor, who was worried about the too merry tongue of his spouse who had already managed to insult Legolas, without even knowing of it; and though the merry art of his being was what he loved Lindir most for, he reminded himself to have an honest word with his spouse, soon.

Ere he thoughtlessly insults the wrong person and causes a blood feud, he thought wearily.

Glóin, in the meantime, already embarked on his undoubtedly very long account of the doings of the Dwarf-Kingdom in Erebor.

''Dáin Ironfoot the King under the Mountain still is'', he was proudly telling between generous bits of roast when Erestor got focussed again, ''though he is now old, having passed his two hundred and fiftieth year. But he is as strong as ever, and venerable, even with the measure of his fathers; and fabulously rich, due the hoard of the Dragon and his own labours; for we have not sat idly in all those years.''

''What about your ten companions of old, the ones who survived the Battle of Five Armies?'', Elrond asked. ''Are they well and healthy?''

''Seven of us still are with the King'', Glóin answered; ''aside me Dwalin, Dori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur.''

''Bombur is now so fat that he cannot move himself from his couch to his chair at table'', Gimli, his son added grinning. ''It takes six young Dwarves to lift him.''

The Elves laughed, too, but Elrond missed not the shadow of pain that crossed Glóin's ruddy face.

''But what has become of Balin and Ori and Óin?'', he asked, knowing well that Óin was Glóin's younger brother(14) and that there was great love between them.''

''We know not'', the Dwarf answered sadly. ''It is largely on account of Balin that I have come to ask the advice of those that dwell in Rivendell.''

Elrond could guess how much it had cost the proud Dwarf to take such a long and tiresome journey upon himself (for though strong and resilient, Glóin was also of high age, just as his King), only to ask the advice of Elves, whom no Dwarf with any self-righteousness truly trusted.

And who has seen a Dwarf that would not be self-righteous?, the Lord of Imladris added in an impulse of customary Elvish prejudice.

''Do tell me then'', he said loud, ''but finish your meal first. For you have endured great hardness on your way from Erebor to this dale, and even your strong boddy needs refreshment. We shall retire to my study when you are done here where we can speak undisturbed.''

The Dwarves eagerly agreed, and Elrond withdrew to his spacious study, escorted by Erestor, who was still somewhat reluctant to leave his much-too-merry-tongued spouse alone with the easily-enraged Sons of Stone but could hardly disobey a direct order from his Lord.

''Any tidings of Mithrandir yet?'', Elrond asked, forsting through the parchments with the latest reports on his writing desk. Erestor shook his head.

''Nay, my Lord. According to the messages sent by Gildor Inglorion, he was seen near Bree twenty and four days ago, but since then he seems to have vanished from the face ot Earth.''

'''Tis disturbing'', said Elrond. ''Mithrandir is never late.''

''He might have been delayed'', Erestor offered awkwardly.

''That he might be'', Elrond agreed, ''which disturbs me even more. For it has to be a great force, indeed, that can keep a wizard from his chosen path. You are one of the few, aside Glorfindel, that know who Mithrandir truly is; and that 'tis not easy to restrain him once he decides to go.''

Erestor nodded. As chief counsellor of Elrond's House(15), he was let in into secrets that not even other members of the household were aware of; also, he was not treated as a mere steward but as a foster son, with all the duties and privileges of a kinsman.

''Do you wish me to send out scouts to look after him?'', he asked.

''Nay'', Elrond shook his head. ''If he has come between the borders of our realm already, he will find his way without help. And outside our borders we cannot help him.''

''Shall we just sit and wait then?'', Erestor asked, clearly not liking the idea. Elrond nodded.

''There is naught we can do for him that he cannot do himself'', he said; then he paused and added in a very different tone. ''Now that we do have this short moment of privacy, I wish to speak with you about your spouse.''

Erestor paled visibly. This was not good, not good at all!

''What has he done, my Lord?''

''Nothing… as yet'', seeing the relief washing over Erestor's face, Elrond smiled, then added with mocking austerity; ''When I gave my blessing to your marriage I hoped you would find a way to restrain that much too nimble tongue of his.''

''So did I, my Lord'', Erestor sighed. ''But do be lenient with him, I beg you! He is still so very young… hardly older than your own daughter. And he has not the serenity the Lady Arwen seems to have been born with.''

''He is young and beautiful and gifted beyond measure, and more innocent than any Elf that ever lived in this valley'', Elrond nodded, but his face was now stern. ''And you are too much in love with him to handle him properly, it seems. But making unduly allowances for him in his youthful rashness would help him little, should he insult the wrong person.''

''That I know, my Lord'', Erestor let hung his head in despair.

''Then do something'', Elrond closed the discussion, ''or I will. And none of you would like that, I fear.''

''As you wish, my Lord'', Erestor bowed, heart still beating rapidly. ''Is my presence at your private council with the Dwarves required?''

''It is'', said Elrond, ''and ask Galdor and Glorfindel to join us as well. Círdan will want to know about the deeds of the Dwarves.''

''What about Prince Legolas?'', inquired Erestor, and his Lord gave him an exasperated sigh.

''Do I seem to you as one who wants bloodshed in his own study? You know as well as I do how bad things between the Dwarves of Erebor and Thranduil's folk still are. Nay, I shall speak of will be said in this council to Legolas in private. 'Tis enough when I have to endure the flares of his temper.''

''Strange'', Erestor frowned. ''In all those years he came visiting Imladris, I always thought him to be calm and even-tempered.''

''He is… for a Wood-Elf'', Elrond shrugged, ''most of the time, anyway. But he also has the ravaging fury of his grandfather in his heart, and that is a force not easily restrained, less so in times of great distress. Now go and do as I asked!''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Less than an hour later Glóin and his people were led to Elrond's study, where several conveniently low benches, generously polstered with flat pillows, had been prepared for them, as well as small tables with plates of seed cake and huge tankards of dark ale which Dwarves were known to prefer to wine.

Glóin grunted appreciatively and eagerly helped himself to a good, long drink, and the others followed suit, save Gimli who simply watched the Elves warily, who were sitting across them in their high-backed chairs, sipping their wine.

''So tell us, Master Glóin'', Elrond said, ''what has become of Old Balin and of your honoured brother? For it seems to me that amid the splendour of their works of hand the hearts of the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain are troubled.''

''Indeed, they are'', said Glóin, '' It is now many years ago, almost thrice ten as Men count it, that a shadow of disquiet fell upon our people. Whence it came, we did not at first perceive. Words began to be whispered in secret: it was said that we were hemmed in a narrow place, and that greater wealth and splendour would be found in a wider world…''

''Were those not the very words that lured the Dwarf-Kings into Sauron's trap in the first place?'', Glorfindel asked quietly. ''Did those words not make them accept the Seven Rings from the hand of the Dark Lord; the very Rings that nearly caused the downfall of all your royal Houses?''

''They were'', Glóin nodded sadly, ''and yet these same whispers inflammed the hearts of our people once again. Some spoke of Moria: the mighty works of our fathers that are called in our own tongue Khazad-dúm; and they declared that now at last we had the power and numbers to return.''

A cry of great distress escaped Glorfindel's lips, and all glared at him in shock, for never had they seen the ancient Elf losing his calm in this manner.

''Those unfortunate fools!'', Glorfindel cried. ''How could they even think of returning to a place that was infested by Udún's Flame? 'Tis folly that could only have led to their most painful deaths!''

Galdor laid a comforting hand upon Glorfindel's forearm.

''Easy my friend. You alone have faced the Flame of Udún and come back to tell the tale. Have patience with the younger ones!''

Glorfindel restrained himself with visible effort – thinking back to his own death made him understandably upset at times – and gave his old friend a grateful nod. Glóin sighed.

''We knew it was folly, Master Elf; yet ever had the desire to take it back burnt deep in our hearts. Moria! Wonder of the Northern World! Many songs and tales, known only in our own tongue, had been sung about its deep mines and vast mansions that had lain empty since the Children of Durin fled.''

''Oh no, not empty, or so I fear'', Glorfindel muttered. ''The Flame of Udún might have been quenched, but creatures of old evil and great strength still might dwell in the deepest chasms there.''

''That might be so'', Glóin said slowly, ''but now we spoke of Moria again with longing… and yet with dread; for no dwarf has dared to pass the doors of Khazad-dúm for many lives of Kings, save Thrór only, and he perished.''

''Which should have been a warning for you, earnest enough not to follow his path that led to his death'', prompted Glorfindel.

''Should have?'', asked Glóin, but in his deep voice there was sorrow rather than anger. ''They say there is a longing in Elven hearts that cannot be withstand. A longing for the Sea that makes you fade away if you follow its call not. Is this true?''

''It is'', nodded Elrond; the Sea-longing was not something he would discuss with strangers, the least with Dwarves, but Glóin deserwed an honest answer.

''Then you might understand our longing for the home and great city of our fathers'', said the old Dwarf, ''for it runs very deep. So came that Balin finally resolved to the whispers and decided to go; and though Dáin did not give leave willingly, he took with him Ori and Óin and many of our folk, and they went away south.''

''Why Ori and Óin and not the others?'', Erestor asked, remembering dimly all the Dwarves who had visited Imladris almost seventy years ago.

''He chose those with no families'', answered Glóin, ''for our Kin increases slowly as you might know, and is in peril if our women and children have no secure dwellings. But he chose Ori aside of all others, to be the chronicler of their great quest. For Ori could write well and speedily, not only with Dwarf-runes but also with Elvish letters.''

''Do you know if they reached Moria at all?'', Galdor asked.

''They did'', said Glóin. ''For awhile we even had news and it seemed good: messages reported Moria had been entered and a great work begun there. Then there was silence, and no word has ever come from Moria since.''

''How long has it been that you last heard of them?'', asked Elrond.

''That was nigh thirty years ago'', Glóin replied. ''Then, about a year ago, a messenger came to Dán, but not from Moria – from Mordor: a horseman in the night, who called Dáin to his own gate'', he added with an indignant snort. ''The Lord Sauron the Great, so he said, wished for our friendship. Rings he would give for it, such as he gave of old. And he asked urgently concerning hobbits; of what kind these where and where they dwelt. 'For Sauron knows', – said he, – 'that one of them was known to you on a time.'''

He fell silent, looking at the Elves in askance, who seemed appropriately concerned about these news but said naught. So he sighed again, took another good, long drink and finished his tale.

''And so I have been sent at last by Dáin to warn our old friend Bilbo that he is sought by the Enemy, though the reason for it is not known to us. And other matters there are, as well, in which we crave the advice of the Master of Rivendell; but speaking of all would make this already late evening much too long. I am an old Dwarf, and though your table helped me to regain some of my strength, I feel the need of a good night's rest.''

''And rest may you be granted, Master Glóin, mayhap more of it than you have looked for'', said Elrond. ''For in about twenty days, there will a Council be held, where all the urgent matters of Middle-earth shall be discussed and very important decisions have to be made. You are respectfully invited to partake if you can take the time.''

The old Dwarf mulled over the invitation for a moment; then he nodded.

''I shall stay. 'Tis important for us to know what is going on in the wide world; and the comfort of your house will make the waiting a delight.''

''So be it'', Elrond rose. ''Erestor will show you to your chambers; as he is the steward of my house, you can ask him for any thing you might need. A good night to you, Master Glóin, and to your people.''

''And to you and your family'', Glóin grumbled politely, getting on his feet with some difficulty, for the good meal and the strong ale made his limbs heavy.

As the Dwarwes followed Erestor out of the study, Elrond could hear Glóin telling his son in Khuzdul (which he happened to understand, thank to his foster father Maglor's teachings(16):

''I told you, son: though never should you trust any Elf, this Rivendell bunch is better than the others. Mayhap the mortal blood in their veins makes them more endurable…''

The Lord of Rivendell smiled wrily, deciding that this was some sort of a compliment after all, and took his leave from Galdor and Glorfindel. He had one more task before him ere he could go to rest: to find Legolas and speak an earnest word with him.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When Erestor finally arrived home, he found his spouse in their shared study, practicing on his silver flute, the moonlight shining on his long, golden hair (for he belonged to a far branch of Gildor's kindred), his eyes shut as he played to the stars and the quietly listening trees in the night.

For a long time he had not even noticed the return of his spouse, so absorbed he was in his music, and Erestor simply watched him, wondering for not the first time, what could have made a creature of such rare gift, such high birt and such exquisite beauty fall in love with him and bond with him.

He seriously doubted his own worthiness of such a privilege. Any Prince or Princess of the elder Days would have thanked the Valar on their knees for such an undeserved gift – and yet Lindir had chosen him. The paths of love did have unexpected twists, indeed.

Finally Lindir finished his music and opened his dreamy, sea-hued eyes to give his spouse one of his shy smiles. He always was shy when they were alone, even after twelve centuries of happy marriage, and Erestor felt himself melting into a puddle from that smile. He reached out for his beloved, and Lindir went eagerly into his arms, resting his young face upon Erestor's shoulder.

''You are upset'', he murmured ruefully, demonstrating once more his unerring sensitivity towards Erestor's moods. ''Have I said something wrong again? Did I insult someone badly?''

''You were lucky with the Dwarves, love'', replied Erestor with a sigh, ''but you should be more careful with the Prince of Mirkwood.''

''He seems to be in a foul mood lately'', Lindir murmured with a smile.

''He is not the only one'', said Erestor gravely.

That seemed to frighten his spouse; Lindir withdrew from his embrace and looked up to him with the wide-eyed astonishment of a child.

Valar, how could someone of his age still be thus innocent?!

''Are you angry with me?''

Erestor sighed again. He had accepted a long time ago that in certain things his spouse would remain a child, even if he should live many thousands of year yet, and he loved him for that even more. But the same child-like light-heartedness made it very hard at times to handle him.

''Nay, dear heart, you know that I cannot be angry with you. Never. But'', he added, hating that he had to chase away that happy light from those dreamy eyes, ''the Lord Elrond can. And he is.''

Lindir frowned, knitting his smooth brows together. The earnesty of the situation began to sink in his mind, filled with love, music and merriment.

''What did he say?"

''He told me to do something about your loose tongue, or else he would… and we certainly would not like that'', answered Erestor grimly.

''O Elbereth!'', Lindir became deathly pale, very sober now. ''Do you believe he would send me away from the valley? Would he separate us, mayhap for the rest of our stay in Middle-earth?''

He was serously driving himself into a frenzy. Erestor grabbed his shoulders, trying to shake him out of it.

''Easy, love! Nay, he would do no such thing, for I would never leave you, and he knows that. But he could send both of us away… to Lórien mayhap, or to the Havens, both of which are places where you would be very unhappy. You need the beauty and the safety of Imladris to flourish and unfold your rare gift in music.''

''And you need your home for your heart to be in peace'', Lindir murmured, deep regret written in his beautiful features. ''Dear heart, I am so very sorry to cause you so much trouble.''

''My heart is at home where you are'', Erestor stroked the pale golden hair of his spouse lovingly''; I would be happy with you any where, even in a Dwarf-den. But it would destroy you to leave the valley, save for the Blessed Realm. And you are a light too bright to shine in Mandos' Halls. So try to be more careful, will you?''

Lindir nodded, tears swimming in his eyes, which frightened Erestor greatly, for in all those long years of their marriage he rarely had seen his spouse weep. As sensitive as Lindir was for any changes, be it in the weather or in the mood of these around him, he usually endured distress with astonishing calm.

''Are you all right, love?'', he asked, deeply worried, taking his shivering spouse in the safety of his arms again.

''Ever… as long as you are with me'', came the muffled answer. ''I cannot lose you…''

''You shall not'', Erestor patted his narrow back; Lindir truly was like a maiden sometimes.

The thought led him involuntarily to an other, and he could not surpress a chuckle over the vision before his eyes.

Lindir raised his head and gave him an insulted glare.

''What….?''

''It just occured to me…'', Erestor chuckled, ''what a shame it is that males cannot get pregnant. You would look beautiful, swollen with our child(17).''

Lindir, too, laughed through his tears and tried to throw out his very flat stomach.

The experiment failed miserably.

''Well… I can try to get fat, if you like'', he offered doubtfully. Erestor laughed.

''Nay, no need for that. You are beautiful as you are. Come now, dear one. Let us retreat; the night is getting old already.''

''So you want me to sing to you in your sleep?'', Lindir asked, following him to their bedchamber that was attached directly to the study. Erestor laughed again.

''Have I ever rejected such an offer?''

''Not that I can remember'', answered Lindir with a laugh of his own. ''What would be your please?''

''I shall let it to you'', Erestor said.

Lindir thought for a moment, then hopped up lightly to their bed and began to sing in his low, sweet voice, while Erestor prepared himself for a good night's rest.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

So, this one got fairly long, but this is where it ends. Below are a few notes for the lore-masters among us. If you're not interested in background trivia, simply skip them. Next we shall witness the arrival of a certain wizard, finally.

1 in the year 1697 of the Second Age  
2 in the year 1975 of the Third Age  
3 Apparently, there weren't any children born in Imladris after Arwen (at least I've nowhere seen it mentioned), so I gave Erestor a male spouse - one that was at least known by name and by a few lines of dialogue.  
4 We don't know, of course, if everyone else of Círdan's people did wear a beard, save the Shipwright himself. I only thought another Elf with a beard would look neat; and Galdor is old enough for that. Also, he is a mariner, so I decided to give him a somewhat rougher look than Elves usually have.  
5 This is basically the same polite greeting that Frodo offered Gildor Inglorion (there: Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo), but in Telerin instead of Quenya; quote taken from Ardalambion - thank you kindly, Mr Fauskanger!  
6a The Battle of Unnumbered Tears - the fifth and most disastrous battle of the Elves against Morgoth in Beleriand.  
6 This 'fact' was completely made up by me, sorry. All Gondolin references are taken from The Book of Lost Tales, except the self-created data about Legolas' family.  
7 Yes, it *is* the same Nellas from Túrin's tale. And yes, I made up her role as Legolas' grandmother.  
8 Means 'foam-singer' in Telerin.  
9 My apologies to all the lore-masters; I simply ignored the fact that according Tolkien Elves usually get their first children around the age of 50 and stopped about 100 years later - it seemed too narrow for me by people who live on for thousands of years. Celebwen is actually older than Legolas.  
9 This is the literal meaning of her name. According to the Etymologies in 'The Lost Road', probably a root word from primitive Elvish. (I'll take here no responsibilities, though.)  
10 'Thanksgiving to Eru' - autumn feast, celebrated also in Númenor.  
11 The White Tower of the Elves, beyond the Shire, where most likely the last palantír was guarded, the one that was in contact with the Master Stone in Avallóne and made them able to look into the Blessed Realm (according to Michael Martinez).  
12 Basically, this is a mix of John Rhys-Davies' appearance in the movie and Glóin's description in the book.  
13 My take on Gimli's appearance is based on the rumour that for some time Jeffrey Combs was considered for the role.  
14 It is nowhere mentioned who the older of Óin and Glóin was. I just took my pick here.  
15 Just to avoid any confusions: when I write 'house', the building itself is meant; 'House' with capitol 'H' means Elrond household and family.  
16 My deepest regards to Deborah for this tidbit of background trivia.  
17 Line quoted almost letter by letter from Athea's story. Lindir will not get pregnant, though. It's just a joke between the two of them.


	4. Chapter 4: The Affairs of Wizards

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE  
by Soledad Cartwright

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, for war-induced, violent images and implied m/m interaction.

**Author's Notes:**

Chapter Four basically contains Gandalf's detailed story about what happened between him and Saruman during his captivity in Isengard. I mostly follow the books with it, as I always do, but here I inserted some small lines and descriptions from the movie, too – not the fact that Saruman showed the palantír to Gandalf, for that would have interfered with later stories. As before, I removed this tale from the Council scene of economical reasons.

Boromir's dream had been inspired by Adrienne's beautiful shortfic ''Weitblick und Stimme.(1)'', which can be found here, on ff.net. The only line quoted letter-by-letter is between double slashes // //.

[Lines in brackets] mean telepathic communication.

The title of this chapter, of course, refers to Gildor Inglorion's statement to Frodo:

''_Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger_.''

The Fellowship of the Ring, Ch: 'Three is Company'

CHAPTER FOUR: THE AFFAIRS OF WIZARDS

They are coming, roaming the banks of Anduin, covering the ruins of our once-beautiful city like ants, moving with the horrid, boneless quickness of insects, their foul and defiling stench laying heavily in the air, leaving a poisonous taste on one's tongue after every single breath.

Breathing becomes very hard, some of our younger soldiers have already fallen to their knees, dry heaves wretching their drained bodies, for they have long had naught more to throw up. This endless battle has lasted many a fortnight by now, and we are running out of resources, including food.

//The Standard of Gondor ripples high above the heads of my men and I, its battered and war-torn fabric cuts thorough the gloom of morning, flying proud.// My brother looks at me, his fair face nearly unrecognizable, smeared with gore and blood – his own, that of his fallen Rangers and with the black blood of our enemies, and in his clear eyes there is a weariness that I had not known before: the utter lack of hope.

And they are coming, the hideous minions of the One Enemy, and though I have battled them before, I still cannot wonder why our young men start retching by the mere sight of them. For they look like Death itself, with their dirt-grey, shrunken skin and yellow, rotten teeeth, with slanted yellow-green eyes and long, pointed ears, like rotten corpses of large, blood-thirsty cats awaken to unlife by Falcraft and wizardry. Their appearance is just as foul as their stench is.

They reek of malice and death.

But how comes that I cannot hear them?

I can _see_ them shrieking their vicious battle cries full of hatred and blood-lust, maws wide open, glistening yellow fangs snapping after every new cry, yet no sound can reach me. How can it be? I have been there, under this very ruined bridge all the time, every cursed day of this cursed battle that seems to have no end, and always have the shrieks of these foul creatures been deafening. Why cannot hear them now?

Now a disturbance seems to raise among their endless rows, as when an aunt-hill is stirred up by a bored child, and the ugly faces turn skywards where a huge, winged Shadow emerges from the clouds, quenching the last sparkles of the fading stars, black and terrible against the first light of the morning, and with it comes the maddening fear of unspeakable evil. And now the eerie, deaf silence is finally broken, by a long-drawn wail that rises and falls, and ends on a high, piercing note, leaving all our men frozen and chilled to the bone with mindless terror.

It takes me some time til I realize that the answering, dreaded shriek is mine.

Then the host of Orcs, blackening the ruins of Osgiliath, suddenly swings into motion, flowing down the river banks to the broken bridge like a dark wave of unstoppable destruction.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Boromir jerked awake, sitting up in the comfortable softness of the large Elven bed, shaken by cold shivers. His whole body was clammy with cold sweat. This had not been the first time for him to dream of that dreadful battle in Osgiliath. The nightmare had returned almost every night during his last few weeks at home, in Minas Tirith, and time and again even during his long journey, though he seldom slept deep enough to dream.

It was becoming unbearable, even though this time he awoke before the grand finale: the image of Minas Tirith, being consummed by dark fire and her smoldering remnaints sinking into a sea of blood.

He got to his feet and paddled over to the adjoining bathing chamber, splashing some cold water onto his face and bare upper body from the white marble washing basin, carved in the shape of a large seashell, and rubbing himself dry with a surprisingly silky towel. Then he put on the robe laid out for him by the hosts of the guest house and stepped out to the balcony for some fresh air.

Sleeping was not an option any more.

Not for this night.

He heard musical Elvish voices and soft laughter from the other side of the Bridge; a few Elves of the valley were standing under the trees on the other river bank, surrounding someone in a long cloak and a tall, pointed hat – presumably an old Man, for he had a long, white beard yet was twice the size of a Dwarf. But no matter how much Boromir tried to make out the newcomer's face, he could not, for the wide brim of that strangely shapeless hat covered most of it.

Now two more Elves were coming over from the main house; one of them tall and dark-haired like most dwellers of the valley had been, wearing the same heavy robes as Glorfindel or Elrond himself. But the other was clad in leggings and a silk-pale tunic only, with long, unbraided hair, pale gold as the moonlight, and a face so ethereally beautiful that Boromir had a hard time to decide whether it was a male Elf or a female one.

They greeted the old Man with all the long-winded ceremoniality that could be expected towards a honoured house-guest and shepherded him away from the bridge, talking to him with voices so low that Boromir could not make out a single word of it. Only the lyrical laughter of the blonde Elf reached his ears, making certain that – no matter how soft it sounded – it was a male voice, for sure.

He looked after them til they vanished in Elrond's house, pondering who the old Man might have been. He certainly looked like one of the wizards, but though Boromir knew that Mithrandir had been expected in the valley for quite some time, the night was too dark for him to see the colour of the old Man's clothes, not to mention that travelling garbs seldom gave away the true identity of the ones who wore them. So, theoretically, it could be even Curunír the White as well as Radagast the Brown, whom the Elves called Aiwendil.

Boromir waited for a while, hoping that they would emerge again or someone else would appear whom he could ask, but neither of these happened, and the night started becoming chilly, even for his hardened nature. So, with a sigh of defeat, he turned on his heels and went back to the abandoned bed, hoping that his demons had had enough for one night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Over the Bridge, in the main house, Elrond had been hurriedly called from his bed, and so was Glorfindel and even the Prince of Mirkwood. They all gathered in Elrond's study, and while Erestor sent Lindir to the pantries to fetch something to eat and to drink for the long-expected guest, even the Lady Arwen arrived, Elrond's daughter (and the Lady of Imladris after her mother's departure), clad in a long coat of deep, midnight blue, embroidered with small, silver stars.

''We all are glad that you have finally arrived, Mithrandir'', Elrond greeted the wizard gravely. ''We would have need of your wisdom earlier, though; and the Ring-bearer even more.''

''I was delayed'', the wizard admitted reluctantly, ''and that nearly proved our ruin. And yet I am not sure; it may have been better so.''

Elrond frowned. In spite of their long friendship, the old man could truly irritate him at times.

''Play no games with me, Mithrandir'', he said. ''I wish to hear tidings, not riddles; and I wish to hear them _now_.''

''You shall hear all you wish to hear, my Lord'', the wizard answered. ''We shall have a Council, and soon, I presume...?''

''We have only been waiting for you – well, and for our scouts to return'', Elrond said. ''My sons are still out upon errantry in the Wild; as soon as they are back, we shall summon the Council together.''

''Then on that Council I shall speak of all things of importance'', the wizard replied. ''At the moment I will only say that I was held captive.''

''_You_?'', Glorfindel asked in bewilderment.

''Yes, I, Gandalf the Grey'', said the wizard solemnly. ''There are many powers in the world, as you well know, for good and for evil. Some are greater than I am. Against some I have not yet been measured. But the Morgul-Lord and his Black Riders have come forth. War is preparing!''

''That much we already know'', Elrond replied drily, ''from Gildor Inglorion, from Glorfindel here and from the adventures of the Ring-bearer. What I wish to hear tonight is the reason of your delay, and I fear I must be rather… persistent in my wish to hear about it.''

[Do not deny him the right to learn of this, Olórin, my friend], Glorfindel warned the wizard gently, with words not spoken but sent from mind to mind. [This fight had been entrusted to him much earlier than you were chosen.]

The wizard gave him a long, hard look – then he sighed.

''Well, well, I shall tell you the most urgent parts'', he gave in, ''but the rest has to wait til the Council. 'Tis dangerous to discuss certain things openly, unless one cannot avoid it.''

Elrond leaned back in his big chair, his narrowing eyes cold like the grey winter frost.

''Then I shall be content with what you can tell us now'', he said.

The wizard sighed.

''As you wish. Now, where should I begin? At the end of _Nárië__(2)_ I was in the Shire; the land of the hobbits'', he added for anyone present who might have not known this, though such a thing was rather unlikely in Elrond's household, ''but a cloud of anxiety was on my mind, and I rode to the southern borders of that little land; for I had a foreboding of some danger, still hidden from me but drawing near.''

''And right you were with the dark hints in your heart'', Legolas said, ''for the messengers of Mordor have come as far as Dale and the kingdom of the Dwarves; and now we can see how all the forces of the Enemy are slowly coming in motion and tightening _His_ grip around the remaining free realms.''

''So I have heard'', the wizard nodded, ''for messages reached me of war and defeat in Gondor, and when I heard of the Black Shadow, a chill smote my heart. But I found naught save a few fugitives from the South, seeking shelter by their northern kindred; yet it seemed to me that on them sat a fear of which they would not speak.''

''Dúnedain from the South, coming to the Angle?(3)'', Glorfindel repeated with a frown. ''That is… unusual, to say the least. The need of Gondor has to be more desperate than we have thought.''

''They were not from Gondor'', the wizard replied, ''but from the borders of Dunland; people who are friendly to the Rohirrim yet serve them not and now found themselves caught between two fires. They have fled to the North with their families to seek refuge in Dale, or probably settle down among the ruins of Laketown(4) again. I gave them a letter to King Bard of Dale, whom I have known since his birth, but in my heart I very much doubt that settling in Bard's realm would save any one on the long haul.''

''And you are right with that, again'', said Elrond; ''or at least that is what the Dwarves say. The realms of dwarves and Men are aimed at, and I fear that Mirkwood shall suffer greatly, too.''

'''Tis something we have grown accustomed to'', Legolas commented drily. ''Not a year of peace have we enjoyed, ever since the dark tower of Dol Guldur has been raised to poison our woods.''

''No-one of us shall enjoy peace in the times that come, I fear'', answered the wizard. ''Now, after parting from the fugitives I turned east and north and journeyed along the Greenway; and not far from Bree I came upon a traveller sitting on a bank beside the road with his horse grazing beside him. It was Radagast the Brown, who at one time dwelt at Rhosgobel, near the borders of Mirkwood. He is one of my order, as you all know, but I had not seen him for many a year.''

''Nor have I!'', Lindir – who had been found by Radagast as a little, orphaned elfling and raised by him and lived with him more than three hundred years – cried, clearly delighted. ''How is he faring? What has he been doing all these years?''

''I know not'', the wizard shrugged. ''He has always been a stranger to these parts of the West, for he seldom came over the Hithaeglir, never being a traveller, unless driven by great need. Yet he was seeking for _me_. He was sent on an urgent errand by Saruman the White: to tell me the evil news that the Nazgúl are abroad again.''

''So Curunír had known about it all the time?'', Glorfindel asked in a less-then-friendly tone. ''And he felt not the need to warn us? This is peculiar, indeed.''

''Less peculiar than you might think, old friend'', Gandalf replied grimly, ''but I shall come to that shortly. As I said, Radagast told me that the Nine had crossed the River secretly and were moving westward, under the guise of riders in black, asking for a land called 'the Shire'. I knew then what I have dreaded without knowing it, and my heart sank.''

''Feel not ashamed'', Glorfindel said. ''Even the Wise fear to withstand the Nine when they are gathered together under their fell chieftain. For a great king and sorcerer he was of old, and now he wields a deadly fear.''

''Yet you hesitated not to go against him'', the wizard bowed his grey head towards the Elf-Lord respectfully; ''not now, nor long ago when you led the forces that broke his evil realm in the far North.''

''Nor am I the only one who has fought him valiantly, him and his vassals'', replied Glorfindel. ''Young Erestor here raised his sword against the Witch-King, too; and Legolas and his people live in the shadow of Dol Guldur, held by his second-in-command. But I am holding you back. Forgive me.''

''There is naught to forgive'', the wizard answered. ''But Radagast had also brought me a message from Saruman. A message that said that if I needed his help, he would provide it; yet I had to go to him at once, ere it was too late.''

''And you _did_ go to him at once, I presume'', Elrond said. The wizard frowned.

''Of course I did. Saruman the White is the greatest of my order. Long has he studied the arts of the Enemy himself, and thus we have often been able to forestall _Him_. It was by the devices of Saruman that we drove _Him_ from Dol Guldur, after all!''

''Was it?'', the Lady Arwen asked quietly. ''I seem to remember, for I have been part of the White Council at that time already, that he had been against this attack for quite some time.''

''And when the Council has finally made its move, it was too late already'', Legolas added grimly. ''Too late for us, for Mirkwood had already been poisoned beyond healing – and too late for others, since all Sauron did was to return to Mordor, to his much greater fortress.''

''True'', the wizard admitted'', yet I still hoped that Saruman might have found some weapon that would drive back the Nine. And so, after having a night's rest in Bree, I rode to the far South, to Nan Curunír, where, in a circle of sheer rocks, the high tower of Orthanc stands: the abandoned watchtower of old Númenor that is now Saruman's fortress. Late on the evening I reached the only gate, and the gatekeepers told me that Saruman awaited me already. So I rode under the arcgh and the gate closed silently behind me.''

''With other words: you walked straight into a trap'', Glorfindel stated, interrupting the longwinded flow of the wizard's tale with his sober statement.

''That I did'', the wizad nodded ruefully, ''for though at first Saruman wore his usual, friendly face, soon had his scorn and haughtiness shown; and I understood that he was our ally no longer. For though white his robes might have seemed, in truth they were woven of all colours, and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered. And he wore a ring on his finger.''

''A _ring_!'', Elrond said with a sharp intake of breath; more a hiss than a breath, actually. ''You think he finally found his way to make a Ring of Power himself?''

''Nay'', Erestor said; ''he cannot forge any Ring of true Power. The secret of making a Great Ring died with Celebrimbor; and not even our Lord could have made the Three without the lore that came from the Enemy and deceived him in the disguise of a friend. Just as Curunír tried to deceive you, Mithrandir.''

'''Tis true'', the wizard nodded; ''for that was why he lured me into his fortress: to win an ally in me. To 'give me a choice', as he said.''

''What choice?'', Erestor asked with open dismay.

''The choice to join him'', the wizard answered grimly. ''To bend under the rule of that new Power that is rising in the East. To turn our backs to the Elves who have no hope left any more, and abandon the dying Númenor. To join with that Power and rule side-to-side with it.''

There was deadly silence in Elrond's study. The ramifications of such an alliance were all too clear for all Elves present.

''So you think that Curunír finally had betrayed his mission and fallen from grace?'', Glorfindel said after what seemed eternity.

''I am almost certain of it'', the wizard replied, full of sorrow. ''He spoke to me of _hope_. Of victory that is at hand; and of a rich reward that would be granted for those that aided it.''

Glorfindel shook his head in despair.

''That old fool! What possible reward could he hope for this treachery?''

''What he always wanted most'', the wizard sighed. ''Knowledge. Power. Rule. Order. You have known him in the West ere he came to Middle-earth – has this not always been what he longed for? To join powers greater than his own and to come with patience at last to direct their curses?''

''It has'', Glorfindel nodded solemnly; ''still, I cannot believe that he has become such a fool as not to see how dangerous his chosen path might prove. For despite all his knowledge and his skills, he still is no match for Sauron.''

''Oh, he knows that'', the wizard said, ''but he hopes he can bide his time. That he can keep his thoughts in his heart, deploring maybe evils done by the way, but approving what he sees as the high and ultimate purpose: to rule in these new, upcoming days when Men take over the world from the older races.''

''So 'tis power, ultimately, what he hungers for'', Elrond said. ''But why would he want to win _you_ over? Cetainly he cannot hope that you would serve his own purposes?''

''He might be an old fool, as Glorfindel says, yet he still is wise enough to know that alone he cannot match the power of Sauron who has learnt his evil arts from the Great Enemy himself'', the wizard answered. ''Right now, he needs my aid for proper balance. I doubt not that he would betray me, too, at the end – when he has laid his hands on the One Ring. For that was it, ultimately, what he had brought me to Isengard for.''

''He knows that the One has reappeared?'', Elrond asked in worry. The wizard nodded.

''Remember, my Lord, that Saruman has been looking for the One ever since Isildur was lost. And he has many eyes in his service, eyes that watch all paths in the western lands – and, as I have come to understand, eyes that watch _my_ paths as well. So he knew that the Nine were asking for the Shire, and he had known of _my_ visits in that small land as well.''

''Did he want you in Isengard to learn of the whereabouts of the Ring, then?'', Erestor asked.

''He did'', the wizard said, ''and there was a lust shining in his eyes which he could not conceal. He has not even seen the Ruling Ring yet, but the desire for it has already enslaved him. 'Tis dangerous to study the ways of the Enemy, even for the Wise – or, mayhap, for them more so than for other people.''

''You refused to tell him aught, I presume'', said Glorfindel. ''What did he then to persuade you? For Curunír is not the wizard to take 'nay' for an answer easily.''

''He is not'', Gandalf agreed, ''and he chose to keep me imprisoned until I revealed where the One might be found – or until it was found in my despite, making him strong enough to break me and punish me for refusing to obey his wishes. His servants took me and they set me alone on the pinnacle of Orthanc where Saruman was accustomed to watch the stars – where I had no chance to escape.''

''And yet you _have_ escaped, as we all can see'', said Glorfindel, ''and doubtlessly, you had time enough to watch what is going on in Isengard.''

''I had'', the wizard sighed, ''and what I have seen almost robbed me of all my hopes. For the valley that had once been fair and green, the flower garden of Orthanc, was now filled with pits and forges; and all the beautiful, huge ancient trees had ben ripped down and burnt in the ovens, deep in those mines. Wolves and Orcs are housed in Isengard, for Saruman is mustering a great force on his own account.''

''In the service of Sauron?'', Elrond asked, but the wizard shook his head.

''Not yet, or so I believe; more in the rivalry of _Him_ – and right now, this is our best hope, for as long as they are still enemies, they also keep each other's forces occupied.''

''For not too long, I fear'', Glorfindel shrugged. ''If Curunír's heart has already been corrupted so far that he turned against his own Order, 'tis only a matter of time that he would succumb to the Enemy – if not for else, then for the rewards he hopes to gain.''

''Which would cause his ultimate fall'', Erestor added quietly. ''With gifts the Dark Lord had once deceived the Jewel-smiths of Eregion, promising them knowledge that would make them able to create things of great beauty and power – and they payed with their lives for those 'gifts' – with their own lives and those of their families. And Celebrimbor was slain by the very hand that offered him those 'gifts', burnt to death by the Flame of Udún(5). Curunír shall receive no better fate, I deem.''

''Nay, he shall not'', the wizard agreed, ''but I was in an evil plight, myself. And you, who know me, Glorfindel more so than any one else on this side of the Sea, will agree that I have seldom been in such need, and do not bear such misfortune well.''

''I can be the witness of that'', Glorfindel laughed. ''You are the most short-tempered being I have met in both worlds, and I can imagine how you must have felt. Gandalf the Grey, caught like a fly in a spider's treacherous web! Ha!''

''Yet even the most subtle spiders may leave a weak thread'', the wizard replied with slight irritation; the things Elves might find amusing were at times beyond his understanding. ''At first I feared, as Saruman no doubt intended, that Radagast had also fallen. Yet I had caught no hint of anything wrong in his voice or in his eye at our meeting. If I had, I should never have gone to Isengard, or I should gone more warily.''

''Never would Master Aiwendil succumb to the forces of evil!'', Lindir said, feeling protective about the eccentric wizard, as usual. ''Not even if they disguised themselves as the good ones. He is not the fool the others of his Order seem to hold him for!''

Erestor gave his spouse a sharp jab in the ribs, rolling his eyes in exasperation. But the wizard took no offense on the somewhat tactless honesty of the young minstrel.

''So Saruman guessed'', he agreed, ''and he had concealed his mind and deceived his messenger. Lindir is right: it would have been useless in any case to try and win over the honest Radagast to treachery.''

Lindir smiled proudly that his opinion was valued for a change, instead of being silenced for his light-headedness, and the wizard added:

''He sought me in good faith, and so he persuaded me. And that was the undoing of Saruman's plot. For I asked Radagast to send me tidings through his friends, the birds, and he knew no reason why he should not do so. After our ways had parted, he rode away towards Mirkwood where he had many friends of old, to send them out on this very errand.''

''The Eagles of the Hithaeglir go far and wide, and they see many things'', Lindir said. ''Always have they ben the most true friends and the most reliable messengers of Master Aiwendil.''

''And dire things they had seen, indeed'', the wizard nodded; ''the gathering of wolves and the mustering of Orcs; and the Nine Riders going hither and thither in the lands. And they sent a messenger to bring those tidings to me.''

''But how did they know where to find you?'', Legolas asked.

''There are many paths open for the Wise'', the wizard answered; ''and even a moth(6) can set things in motion that are able to bring down whole mountain-sides.''

The others gave him a bleak look, but he said no more of this matter; instead he continued with his tale.

''So it was that when summer waned, there came a night of moon, and Gwaihir the Windlord, swiftest of the Great Eagles, came unlooked-for to Orthanc; and he found me and bore me away, before Saruman was aware. I was far from Isengard, ere the wolves and Orcs issued from the gate to pursue me.''

There was silence again, while all that were present absorbed the dire news.

''I ask you all not to speak of this matter to any one'', Elrond finally said, ''not even to others of our own kin. I wish not any rumours to be discussed, ere the planned Council gets together; for we cannot know if we are free of all spies in our very valley. And I would not risk for any crucial tidings to find their way out of the dale.''

''You would not even tell Galdor or Estel?'', Legolas asked, frowning. ''And what about he son of Denethor? His people are allied with the Rohirrim; he might know more of Curunír's moves than we do.''

''Gondor has sent a messenger?'', the wizard asked in surprise. ''One of the Steward's own sons? Which one?''

''His Heir'', the Prince of Mirkwood answered; seeing the wizard's face fall, he added: ''And he seems not very happy about our secrecy already. Do you know him, Mithrandir?''

''Not very well'', the wizard shrugged. ''I would prefer to deal with his brother, though, who is more perceptive to reason.''

Legolas raised a questioning eyebrow.

''I found him not unreasonable – but mayhap two warriors understand each other better than it can be expected from other people. In any case, 'tis not wise to shut him out. He has quite a temper.''

''_That_ we have already seen'', Elrond sighed. ''Let us hope that he can restrain himself 'til our Council. Then all secrets shall be laid open.''

'''Tis your decision, my Lord'', Legolas said in a tight voice, ''But I still think 'tis a mistake. Gondor might become our most important ally; for what forces do we still have left? But when we handle their emissary with mistrust, how can we expect them to trust _us_?''

''You know my reasons'', said Elrond soothingly. ''That we only keep our secrets from him a little longer for Estel's sake.''

''I do'', Legolas countered, ''I just disagree with you. Or is that not allowed in your house? Makes that my opinion a false one from the beginning?''

'''Tis for a few day only'', Elrond replied, ''then all his questions shall be answered.''

''By then, it might already be too late'', Legolas warned earnestly. ''You should get over your suspicions when Men other than the Rangers of the North are involved. 'Tis their fight as well as it is ours.''

''I know that'', Elrond answered with slight irritation; Legolas constant nagging was getting to him in all earnesty. ''Still, I find secrecy more important at this point of the events unfolding.''

Legolas only shrugged, though his face clearly showed his disagreement. There was no use arguing with Elrond once he had gone all stubborn on someone.

_The thick blood of those brick-headed mortal ancestors of him!_, the Prince of Mirkwood thought, not entirely without fondness, for those little quirks of very un-Elvish stubbornness were part of what made the Lord of the Valley so likeable in his eyes.

The others seemed to agree with Elrond (or were too tired to fight with him), so the private council was adjourned and all returned to their beds, save Lindir who escorted the wizard to one of the guest chambers. Serving as Elrond's aide aside of being a minstrel, some of Erestor's earlier duties fell to him during the recent hundreds of years, making the seneschal able to take more time for himself – or, to be more accurate, for themselves.

''I see you are still not happy with my decision'', said the Master of the House, wrapping his arms around Legolas' slender waist from behind and kissing him gently on one shoulder.

''You are a stubborn Elf – and so am I'', the Prince of Mirkwood replied, covering the clasped hands in front of him with his own. ''We both have known that from the beginning. I just wish you would listen to me every time and again.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the theory of Glorfindel having known the Istari from the West and being a friend of Gandalf's:

''In The Peoples of Middle-earth Christopher [Tolkien] published for the first time two essays concerning Glorfindel which his father had written around the time of 1972. The first essay is incomplete, its opening page missing, but it seems that JRRT had decided that several Elves had been sent back to Middle-earth with the Istari "as guards or assistants". One of these was Glorfindel, attached to Gandalf. This essay supposes that Glorfindel, because of his great sacrifice, was released from Mandos early, and he was restored to the natural innocence of the Elves. Living with the Maiar and among Elves who had never rebelled, he probably became a friend to Olórin (Gandalf) and grew in wisdom and power.'' (Michael Martinez: The Wars of the Glorfindels)

Tolkien later abandoned this idea, but it still could be that Glorfindel had met the Istari in their true form (as Maiar), ere he returned to Middle-earth during the Second Age (as Tolkien finally decided he would), to help the Elves in their war against Sauron.

End notes:

(for fanatics only)

(1) Means literally ''Foresight and Voice'' in German.  
(2) The sixth month, roughly identical with June. According to JRRT, the Eldar used the Quenya names of the months (in the rare cases they counted the time in months at all; usually they counted the seasons), in a fashion Middle Age-people used the names in Latin. See: Appendix D to ''The Return of the King''.  
(3) The lands between the rivers Mitheithel and Bruinen, where - according to Michael Martinez - Aragorn's people dwelt (the majority of them, at least). See: Ranger for Hire: Have Horse, Will Travel  
(4) For those who haven't read ''The Hobbit'' (though you should, really): Laketown was the city destroyed by Smaug the dragon ere he was slain. Dale was an ancient city of Men, re-built after the death of the dragon.  
(5) To be honest, I have no idea just how Celebrimbor was slain by Sauron. Should it have nothing to do with fire, than consider this as figurative speech. g  
(6) You have seen the movie, I presume?


	5. Chapter 5: The Counsel of Elves

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE

**By Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG-13, for this chapter, mainly for angst stuff.

Warning: don't read this when you are afraid of enclosed spaces! There is one scene that can cause nightmares by claustrophobic people.

**Author's Notes:**

With this final chapter, this tale, too, is completed, and I can finally go on with the storyline. As you can see below, I pracitcally borrowed the scene between Frodo and Gildor from ''Three is Company'' in ''The Fellowship of the Ring'', as a basis for an in-deep conversation between Boromir and Gildor. Some lines, like the quote why one should never go to the Elves for counsel, are basically unchanged – though spoken by another character.

Also, this is a very different Gildor from that of the book – the reasons for his bitterness are shown in detail in my other tale, the one named ''Innocence''.

I also gave a cameo to another rarely-used character – just because I like him a lot.

No, I won't tell who it is. You'll have to read the story. g

The title of this chapter, of course, refers to Frodo's answer to Gildor Inglorion:

_''And it is also said: Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.''_

The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter: 'Three is Company'

CHAPTER FIVE: THE COUNSEL OF ELVES

The nightmares returned in the following night and in the night after that, too… and what is more, they even became more intent, more violent every time. They grew so bad that on the third night Boromir hesitated to go to sleep at all, rather giving up the long-missed comfort of a real bed – and such a wonderfully soft one to that – than suffer any more visions of blood and death and fire.

He wandered off in the twilight, walking the cut-in passes that ran alongside the rocky hills, avoiding the dwellers of the valley while avoiding the more lively paths among the graceful buildings that sat in the dents or snugged to the hillsides so seamlessly as if they had not been built by Elven hands but grown naturally like the trees themselves.

Finally, he reached a seat cut in the stone, beside a turn in the path high above one of the waterfalls, and there he sat down, looking tiredly at the pine-woods far up the north side of the valley. The air was fresh, even a little chilly, but it felt good, and the singing voices of unseen Elves somewhere far away melted with the music of the waterfall in the most pleasant and soothing way.

Still, it gave his troubled heart little peace. He felt ill at ease. He did not belong in this realm of old lays and living legend. Mayhap Faramir should have come in his place, after all. Faramir would revel in it, he would understand the hidden meaning of Elven words, he would see through all their schemes. But not Boromir himself. All he wanted was a clear answer to that cursed Riddle and a swift horse back to Minas Tirith.

_What am I doing here?_, he asked himself. _'Tis useless. I should not waste my time here. Who knows if I gain aught with tarrying?_

'''Tis a palce of enchantment and magic; a place of safety if one is there upon Arda(1) in these days'', a melodic yet slightly hard voice said behind him; it sounded like steel ringing against stone. ''A very good place when you have a hard decision to make.''

Boromir turned his head – and rose at once in respect, without being ordered to do so. Behind him a tall, proud Elf stood, clearly one of the nobles of the Eldar, wearing a richly-embroided tunic under his soft grey cloak, with the crest of some ancient Elven House upon his breast, and his hair – undbraided and unadorned, just bound together with a silver cord – had the colour of molten gold, falling down in a thick cub, well below his lean waist.

His angular face was very fair, though his expression bitter and more than a little haughty, with high cheekbones and wide, sea-hued eyes; and a long scar marred his left cheek, from the temple to the strong jawline – an old sword-wound, if Boromir ever seen one. A great sword in a beautifully-crafted scabbard hung upon his back, and he also wore two long knives on his belt.

Unlike the other Elves whom Boromir had met in Imladris so far (save Glorfindel mayhap), this one clearly was a warrior, Lord and leader of other warriors, no doubt. He also was the first one who openly carried any weapons.

''What makes you think I have a hard decision to make?'', the son of Denethor asked in surprise.

''You are walking around in the deepening darkness, risking a fall from the narrow rock paths of a valley you clearly know not'', the Elf pointed out. ''My dealings with Men taught me this being a sign of distraction during heavy inner struggles.''

''Who are you that you had dealings with Men in these days, when Elves and Men mingle little'', asked Boromir with a frown, ''and who is your Lord?''

''I am Gildor'', the Elf answered as if expecting his name to be known by the Man. ''Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod. I also am called Lord of the South Haven.''

''You are _called_ that?'', Boromir repeated, for the answer was peculiar, indeed. ''_Are_ you then not?''

''We are Exiles'', the Elf said with a shrug, ''and most of our kindred have long ago departed. We, too, are now only tarrying here a while, ere we return over the Great Sea. But some of our kinsfolk dwell still here in this valley, and so at times we turn this way in our travels and spend here a season or two.''

''So you are a kinsman of the Lord Elrond?'', Boromir asked, but the Elf shook his head, almost angrily.

''Nay, I am related to his departed wife… from fairly afar, to tell the truth. But I do have a niece and a nephew who chose to live here, and I visit them every time and again.''

''Why would you risk to leave your realm unguarded?'', Boromir felt slightly bewildered. He would never leave Minas Tirith behind, once the stewardship passed over to him.

'''Tis no realm'', the Elf answered with a bitter smile, the lines around his hard mouth deepening, ''but a small settlement near the land your people call Dol Amroth. I return there as ofthen as I am needed, but 'tis not our way to have permanent dwellings in Middle-earth. We travel across the lands, carry messages and tidings and share the lives and the work of the people we visit – til our journeys lead us away once more.''

''You dwell near Dol Amroth?'', Boromir asked in surprise. ''Then you must be the Elf-Lord of Edhellond(2), whom I have heard spoken of at times. They say your people pass through Gondor frequently. How come we never met before?''

''We choose paths throuigh fair Ithilien where no folk dwells in these days'', Gildor replied, ''yet I know who you are, Boromir son of Denethor. At times I rest under the roof of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and we speak of many things; the dealings of your family being one of them.''

Then he brought forth a lamp from under his cloak; and when he unhooded it, it sent forth a clear blue light from a flame imprisoned in a white crystal that hung in a fine chain net of _mithril_ and shone with an inner blue radiance. And Boromir gazed at the small lamp in awe, for those lamps were considered a legend themselves; for they were made of old in Valinor, and neither wind nor water could quench them – and no-one had seen one of them for at least an Age(3).''

''Come'', the Elf-Lord said, ''let me guide you back to the guest house ere darkness falls completely. 'Tis not good to walk unknown paths during the night… not even here.''

Boromir nodded his thanks and followed Gildor, realizing for the first time how far he had walked off and that he most likely would not find his way back alone, for Imladris was a surprisingly wide-spread settlement, that followed the irregular turns of living rock with its paths and could be as confusing as any maze ever built deliberately.

Finally they crossed the bridge of Bruinen again and stepped onto the long balcony of the guest house. There already another guest sat, smoking his short wooden pipe: a Man of Boromir's age or somewhat older even, with dark hair and a short, greying beard framing his high forehead and long face, thin lips and a long, straight nose making him look older than he likely was(4).

''You!'', Boromir said in surprise.

Of course he recognized the Man, though he wore a gold-lined black velvet tunic and a silvery grey shirt instead of the rough green and brown garb from their last (and so far only) meeting. This was the same Man he had met in the ruined city of Tharbad, after having lost his horse in that bloody skirmish with the cursed orcs.

The very same Man who turned his steps into the right direction to find Imladris.

''Hail and well met, Man of Gondor'', the stranger noded, taking the pipe from his mouth for a moment. ''I see you have found Imladris after all.''

''Thank to your advice and the help of the Wood-Elves, I have'', Boromir agreed, ''but I would like to know _whom_ I owe my gratitude. You never told me your name, good sir.''

''Nor have you told me yours, Man of Gondor'', the other replied with a grim smile; ''but be it as you wish. The Dúnadan Halbarad I am, Ranger of the North. And I already know who _you_ are: the son and Heir of the Ruling Steward of Gondor. The honour is all mine; I thought not that I was dealing with such nobility back then.''

Boromir glared at him suspiciously, as if he tried to figure out whether he was being mocked; but the other Man seemed sincere enough.

''He is no mere Ranger'', the Elf added with a faint smile. ''but second-in-command to the chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North and also his kinsman. He has come for the council that will take place in a few days, I deem.''

''A _few_ days?'' Boromir snorted in dismay. ''Twenty of them, mayhap even more; a moon almost, while I have to sit and wait instead of trying to buy a new horse somewhere and racing home where I am _needed_!''

''You cannot know where you are truly needed'', Gildor said; ''not until you have learnt all that is to learn about the peril that is coming upon us all.''

''I cannot learn aught while the Lord of the Valley is keeping secrets from me!'', Boromir answered bitterly. ''I have only come to seek the meaning of a riddle; to ask for counsel and the unravelling of the hard words of a dream. Yet not even thus much would he grant me so that I could go on my way and mend my own affairs.''

''Sometimes a riddle can hide a meaning so deep that it would affect the fate of many'', said Gildor, sea-coloured eyes darkening with memories. ''Judge not Elrond's wisdom ere all secrets are laid open. Often have I questioned his choices myself – yet so far he mostly have proved right.''

Admitting this clearly was not easy for him.

''I know not if I can tarry here while my sword is needed at home so desperately'', Boromir murmured. ''A hundred and ten days have I travelled, and unless I find a swift horse, it might even take longer for me to get back. I should leave as soon as possible… I cannot waste my time with fruitless waiting.''

''It might not be as fruitless as you believe'', Gildor replied solemnly.

Boromir looked at him with furrowed brow.

''You know something about what happens behind the walls of Elrond's house'', he guessed. ''I believe you even know something about that cursed riddle that sent me on this quest, do you?''

''What I would have to offer is guesswork only'', the Elf shook his golden head, ''for I am no confidant of the Lord Elrond, therefore the nature of your quest is not known for me. The choice is yours: to go or wait.''

Boromir gave him an annoyed glare, and Halbarad laughed quietly.

'''Tis said: Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes'', he commented drily.

Gildor raised an elegant eyebrow.

''Is it indeed?'', he asked. ''Elves seldom give unguarded advice, 'tis true; for advice is a dangerous gift, even from the Wise to the Wise; and all courses may run ill in these days. I know little of the Heir of Gondor; only what his uncle had told me, and that, too, had been many seasons ago. How then shall I choose better than he?''

''I asked you not to choose for me'', Boromir replied, annoyed that the Elf would speak of him as if he weren't even there. ''I only hoped you would be less aloof than the others of your kin – after all it was you who spoke to me in the first place. But I see now that I have been wrong.''

Gildor shrugged, taking no offense at all; and his eyes were now hard and bitter again and cold as grey ice.

''The Elves have their own labours and their own sorrows'', he said in a clipped tone that buried memories of old pains, ''and they are little concerned with the ways of Men, or of any other creatures upon Arda. Our paths cross theirs seldom and more by chance than by purpose. For darkness is gathering again, and ere long our people shall leave these shores… and our eyes look in different directions, Son of Gondor. May the stars shine upon the end of your road – for you shall need it, badly.''

Boromir felt a dull pain in his heart. Had the Elf mayhap peering into his thoughts? Could all Elves do that? Would his inner secrets ever be safe on this place of Elven sorcery?

Gildor seemed to know what he was thinking, indeed, for he shook his head again with a sigh.

''Nay, Boromir, I cannot look into the thoughts of mortal Men; nor do I desire to do so. Yet I can see a shadow lying upon your heart – you should guard it closely, or you might yield to it and be lost, for ever. This is my only counsel to you, and you should be grateful, for I did not give it gladly, but only for the sake of Prince Imrahil, whom I call an Elf-friend and an ally.''

With that, the Elf-Lord hooded his magical lamp again and left without any further word. Boromir glared after him angrily.

''Elves are the most infuriating creatures on Earth!'', he finally spat.

Halbarad shrugged good-naturedly.

''They are _different_ – in the inside even more than in their looks. And Gildor Inglorion has more bitterness in his heart than the most. It colours his dealings with other people.''

''What bitterness?'', Boromir asked.

''He descends from a House that once gave High Kings to all Elven realms in Middle-earth'', said Halbarad, ''yet he was born in a time when there were no realms left for him to rule. But he is one of the Wise nevertheless(5), and his eyes are keen – he can read the hearts of Elves and Men. So, if he says that you are threatened by the Shadow, you should take his warning serously.''

''He knows naught of me!'', Boromir protested. The thought that the Elf might have been right upset him to no end.

''That might be so'', Halbarad nodded soberly, ''but he knows very much of the Shadow. He is said to have walked the black fields of Mordor at times – if 'tis true or not I cannot know. Yet I do know that he is a great leader of his people; one who can judge the hearts of others rightly. You should listen to him.''

''To what?'', Boromir asked in dismay. ''He told me nothing.''

''He shared his insight with you, and that is something Elves seldom do'', said Halbarad; ''yet if you need simpler counsel, I offer you some. I advise you not to leave the valley before Elrond's council, even if your heart urges you to return home. No-where else can you learn secrets and wisdom like those that would be shared here – and I fear you shall need it all to be of use for your land.''

Boromir sighed in defeat.

''You are right. I have travelled so long and on such perilous roads to come here; it would be folly to leave with questions unanswered. Will you stay as well?''

''For this night, only'', Halbarad answered. ''Then I shall leave for the wilderness to meet other scouts who have been sent out long ago. Time is running short, and Elrond needs all tidings that can be gathered.''

''That is regrettable'', Boromir said, slightly disappointed. ''I hoped to have someone here to talk to… other than those haughty Elves. Or that annoying Strider.''

''I had the feeling the two of you would not get along too well'', Halbarad smiled, ''but that can change still. However, I shall be back for the Council, then I am wanted as the voice of my people – and mayhap we even shall find the time to exchange tidings from the North and the South.''

''Mayhap'', Boromir nodded. ''I would like that very much.''

For indeed, he found the Man reasonable and easy-going – and far less full of himself than Strider had been. That haughty bastard! How did he dare to handle the Captain-General of Gondor like a frightened child?!

''So would I'', Halbarad emptied his pile and rose with a heartfelt yawn. ''But for now, I must take my leave from you, my good sir. Pleasant dreams.''

_Better no dreams at all_, Boromir thought with a shiver, for the last thing he needed was another night spent among violent nightmares.

He felt weary beyond relief. When he arrived after a hundred and ten days of tiresome travelling, he somehow hoped that the magic that protected this enchanted valley would somehow screen him, too, from the darkness that had grown slowly, steadily in his heart.

From the despair that clutched him with an icy grip, tightening around his chest like a too narrow mail shirt, suffocating him, stealing his breath.

From the shame he had felt all his adult life; ever since he detected the treacherous ways of his own heart.

Yet it was not so.

Finding Imladris only brought him more anguish – and a despair that became even deeper with every new encounter.

And the shame burned him more than ever.

Now that he was far from Faramir, the sharp pain of a forbidden and unrequited love became a dull ache in his heart – more bearable for the flesh, yet leaving a gaping hole in his soul.

Now he was truly, utterly alone.

His shameful secret that had been so ruthlessly revealed for the very two people that should never learn of it – his father and his brother – lay upon his heart like wet clay – cold, heavy and sticky clay, quenching the air out of his lungs.

It felt like being buried alive, moist earth filling his mouth and his nose, making him unable to cry out for help – or even breathe. And the layers of freshly broken earth got thicker and thicker, pushing him down deeper and deeper into the soft, slippery ground, covering him completely, til naught of his body was free any more.

Then he could more feel than hear – for his ears seemed full of dirt as well – the low thumping as the earth was stomped above him by heavy feet to a solid, unbroken lid of some natural coffin…

He jerked awake with a bone-shaking scream.

In his troubled sleep he had fallen from the bed, laying bare on the cold stone pavement, bathed in even colder sweat.

_Valar, would this never come to an end?_

Sometimes he wondered if he had been cursed at time during his miserably short and hard life.

He crawled back to bed, shivering with a chill that came not from the cold wind that sang outside in the garden, playing the tree branches like some gigantic harp, but from the painful emptiness of his heart.

He never noticed the pair of worried emerald eyes that peered through the ever-open, glassless windows of the balcony.

End notes:

(1) The name the Elves use when mentioning the Earth.  
(2) An ancient sea-haven of the Silvan Elves, from where Legolas, too, sat sail much later, to go to the Blessed Realm.  
(3) I assumed this to be the last of the Fëanorian lamps still to be found in Middle-earth. It belonged once to Celebrimbor and he gave it to his friend Gildor - at least so it will be, when I come to it in my Celebrimbor-story.  
(4) For better visualization, I simply used the man who was sitting on Boromir's left during Elrond's Council in the FOTR movie - there a messenger of Dale, or so it's said, but I promoted him.g  
(5) At least according to Michael Martinez. See: ''Who is like the Wise Elf?'' 


End file.
